Quick-slow, she wakes from a dream she can't quite grasp.
She was young again, gaberdined, all the continent
An anemone and her there like a hedge hop vanishing
Beyond tillage rows of turnip seeds and on again
To where milk spouts roll down oatmeal at the call
Of peacocks shuffling dusted paths in 1950's Antrim.
Quick-slow, she wakes from a dream she can't quite grasp.
Does it do her good to know she isn't there yet? Wired
For the final fall as she is, imminent and inevitable as dusk
In late August's dew-down scent. Interwoven there,
Lazy daisy stitching patterns as permanent as Winter
Of her mother's epitaph the day they laid her down.
Quick slow, she wakes from a dream she can't quite grasp.
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