Time goes by the book laid open
On the long marble table: my work
In the kitchen your landlord painted yellow and white.
Beyond it the glass cupboard doors: behind them now
Ranged the green and yellow cups and plates
You bought in September and left behind, still in boxes.
One more of your suddenly furnished houses.
Eighteen years since we discovered, cash in hand,
Anonymous, the supermarket pleasures
Stacked and shinily wrapped, right
For this country, where all wipes clean,
Dries fast. Or California where you are now.
No sound from the man asleep upstairs.
At the hour’s end I walk to the window
Looking over the slopes. Now the night mist
Rises off the vague plain, reaching
Our tall pine where cones cling like mussels:
Light still plays among the branches,
Touches the cold cheek of the windowpane.
I’ve bought blankets and firewood; we live here now.
To Eilís, Agello, March 1981