An cumhrán a chaitheadh sí sna déaga
is ailceimic a colainne tríd,
farraige, féar is fiúise
i naoi déag seachtó a naoi,
do shiúl thar bráid sa tsráid aréir
nóscumaliom mar bháisteach,
comhartha broinne ar a rúitín clé
is lúba airgid ar a riostaí geanmnaí.

Mar a bheadh scáth fearthainne sa ghaoth
d’iompaigh mo chroí
isteach is amach
faoin gcith cumhra
ná fliuchfadh barra mo mhéar.

Nuair a d’éirigh an ghrian
thar mhaol gualainne aniar,
bhí cumhracht cnis
ar bhláthanna teochreasa
ag briseadh
tré leacacha na cathrach.

Rain
That perfume she wore in her teens
shot through with the alchemy of her body
- sea, grass and fuschia
in nineteen seventy nine -
walked past on the street last night
as couldn’t-care-less as rain,
a birthmark on her left ankle
and silver bracelets on her untouchable wrists.

Like an umbrella in a high wind,
my heart turned inside out
under a drench of fragrance
that left my fingertips
bonedry.

When the sun rose
over her shoulder,
tropical flowers
perfumed like skin
burst through paving stones
all over the city.

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