Paula Meehan
Pale under the moon through the glass
his limbs still
and soon
before the stormclouds pass over the house and fill
it with darkness she'll slip in beside him
as into a pool.
Warm ripples will lap her thighs, brim
her breasts, spool
her close and free
her mind of the trouble that has kept her late
by the fire, a fragrancy of apple wood , to struggle with her fate
while has always been to leave what is familiar, trusted, known,
for the half-seen
shadow world, far beyond the human zone.
Page 65, Poetry Ireland Review Issue 27