They are homeward bound
I sit listening to the running water, the ticking watch
and the snoring dogs,
Mist has enveloped the house. A grey light but
grey nonetheless.
A girl’s wetsuit, left behind, hangs in an empty wardrobe
and a boy’s wallet lies in a drawer.
Now I must make my way alone.
Three pairs of wetsuit boots sit outside
the door.
I am comforted by their presence.
These are the details to fool the intruder
To fool myself that I am more than one.
They left the dogs, aware perhaps of my isolation –
I am grateful but know well that
This is the time of parting.
It has begun.
Now is not the time
Now is not the time to tell them
of the mountains of longing
and the valleys of despondence
the terrain difficult and the map useless
Now is not the time to tell them
that drowning happens quietly
Now is the time to show them
the power of the bees’ legs carrying pollen
the joy of the dogs at the open door
the hope of the leaping salmon
Now is the time to show them
that a wasp may be blown gently away
Listening to the news
We live in the common travel area of
Our marriage
We traverse the invisible borders
Roam each others’ lands freely
Occasionally treaties must be entered to
prevent hard boundaries being reinstated.
Together we wonder when we will be
moving to the fiscal space.
The traveller’s water bottle
Over the washing machine
A photograph, made picture, hangs.
I look back at myself,
Twenty three, backpack and water bottle over shoulder,
6am in the Himalayas.
The water bottle fished from
a skip bag
the young girl fishing for it
catches my watching window eye
and drops it.
I wave two arms dramatically
“Take it,” I mouth.
It must venture forth again. I must
stay here. Who better to own it than
a young traveller girl?
Deirdre Ryan was born in Tyrone and lived in London for the first six years of her life. Having initially studied Irish and Music in UCD, she later added English to her degree. She lives in Dublin and is currently working on her first collection.
