Chinks of Sky

(Skibbereen)

Memory clings to luminous imperfections,
mistakes made one day
that persist in the light,
as those dark red shoes I had bought,
too big but so glossy and good for the rain,
I had at once seen the Irish wet days
brightened, vanquished by them,
I thought I wouldn't mind
to be slightly off balance, to feel my feet
just a bit heavy.
So we walked fifteen miles the next day,
the fat stormy clouds sailing gaily,
the wet winter short grass lightened from within,
a horizon of shiny slopes glistening
after the upteenth tearing shower
and skinny soggy branches pointing
at a long crack in the clouds like a blue highway;
we walked on and passed by the reeds of a shivering inlet,
a heron glanced in the shaking wind gusts,
we had disturbed its silent stalking tasks
in the air that was cold with a breath of red luster
mirrored by my Doc Martens,
the hills and plains a fierce open hand
and my ankles bursting.
On the way back I remembered the hard road inch by inch,
the wind on our back and the sparse raindrops
full of evening redness, with a warm gaze
despite the threatening Atlantic hail.
Back home I threw the shoes away,
they definitely did not fit me
but the segments of vacant space
my feet felt inside them

still hang in my breath,
chinks of an enduring sky, a furious
god's smile.

Trespassing