She hunkered on a Galway Hooker
so when waves rapped
against those black eye lashes
she could up-anchor before they
sank her, and red sail fast away.
When cross-tides conflicted
to drown her in distraction,
she tied her wrists to the mast,
and swung her bluff bow into
the vast ocean, rather than succumb.
Fee fie fo fum, she defied those
dinky dinghies, tony tugs and
wet-nosed corricles to upset her equinimity.
No escutcheon betrayed her anonymity:
black lashes sailed today.
The alarming sound of bells pursues us
to the edge of our slice of peace.
so we hurry upstairs – retreating
to a place of monks and poppies,
framed for offering their opium heads
boldly in this high heaven.
No gardener, tending and tidying
the earth for human delectation,
rather would I let roses ramble
and weary travellers rest
in shady gnarl of broken bow.
So it is pleasant here,
in your rescued window seat,
away from those insistent bells
calling us to be pious, reverent,
Here I am picked but not potted,
some kind of old seed, regenerating.