Eavan Boland (1944-2020)

I have become so aware of my hands
lately,
their folding of things,
 
of too-sweet smelling fabrics
  (washing machine is crocked)
their patting of panes, pain, counter
-pane,
administering drugs or massages to
a dying cat —
I chose not to believe your death.

Homebound,
 gardenbound,
the pitch of kids’ voices subdued
by the old ancient
box-hedge. They are out-sung

by sparrows and 
wrens jaunting through, 
skitting overhead
fearless.
They are always present in
the halls,

their halls.

There is a bright
bright moon tonight.
Blackbirds are always last to sing,
to sound the alert
               (they call the night–)
 It is night,
 it is night.

I lit a purple candle for you.
It smells of berries,
hot-house pinks, 

              of wild things.

© C. Murray
27.04.2020