Coming home
It’s not a marriage
what we have is more sacred
transcending broken vows
closer than being naked
she underlies my skin
and clouds
my thinking all the colours of
Ireland
knitwear and witches
and decorates the corners of
my room
and she can count the phases of the moon
divine my fireball
and sweep the clouds from heaven
on a broom
ancient as the stones is our connection
and older than my bones
she’s the exception
to my feeling of going it alone
starved of affection
her love
on this prison planet strong as a taste
of home
