Sean Lysaght

3 Poems


A maiden aunt, who approached
Those dazzling heaps of white
As she crossed a field to the well,

Along a worn path
Her nephew followed in June
When the blossom was all over.

I fished obsessively in the river
And made her anxious. (She believed
That the big pool by the bridge

Had swallowed a coach and four.)
Now I’m on her track once more,
Waist-deep in rushes

To fill her white enamel bucket
And get it brimming back
To the scullery cold.

Loose boots across a concrete yard.
White spit of my toothpaste
On silverweed, confusing the hens.

A zinc mug dipped to rinse my mouth
And fill, and fill again with may blossom
Until the month runneth over.



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