We are in the old house, once a silk mill,
a mulberry tree by the door,
above us a stone tower and pigeonaire

whose nightly stirrings feather our sleep
and dawn wakens us
to stand in silence before its presence.

Days are quiet here, silk-screened to memory.
We sit on terraces where clingstones swell in pots
above gardens of pine and cicadas.

Evenings the men play boules in the yard.
We watch them scratch a circle in the grit,
throw the small wooden jack.

The women sit in chairs to watch the play,
listen to shouts, the hollow thump of boules,
both teams stooping to count their points

but you are miles away, homing
to the curved bay and blurred playing fields
of youth where once you were king.

Light folds its wings and dives between trees.
You follow it to darkness
and I must tread on bird shadows to reach you.

Deirdre Brennan's most recent collections are Hidden Places: Scáthán Eile (Arlen House, 2011) and As Trunc Fernando Pessoa (Coiscéim, 2015), a selection of poems by the Portuguese poet