Finuala Dowling

Four Poems

A bargain with death

In my last minutes I would like to forego
the angelic host and instead stand on any road I know,
not as that road is now, but three or five hundred years ago.

Between the end of this world and the start of that,
I’d like to watch handsewn shoes carry a handtied sack
along a route I half-recognise, now a sandy track.

What I have in mind is no wires, no stuff to throw away;
Only an isn’t that? rock beside a surely that’s? shore:
the place I live now, but never seen before.


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