Straws in the Wind

Gerald Dawe
I sleep in my daughter's bed tonight
while she snortles feverishly by her mother. Her things are all around me.
I am like a giant in a doll's ho.use
and in the mirror of her dressmg-table see myself, ludicrous with glasses on, a cursed fly buzzing overhead.
If I had the choice what could I hope for? That she sees this night through with ease and that her dreams suffice
so when morning comes
the sickness will have passed.
But now, with time on my hands, I wish for her much more -
the passion and caress of love; .
the want to go on, not just savmg face.
Far better she just sleeps.
In the meantime, like standing guard, I think I hear night-things bomba.rd our fragile peace: straws in the wmd, a fugitive dog sniffmg the backsteps.
Page 54, Poetry Ireland Review Issue 26