Encounters at Metro Stations
Your lips glance briefly, stop light
flash off the chalice glass, marks
you leave in scents of Christmas ginger,
tastes of honey wine.
As wiry-spun, quick in the moving
shadows' creep of carousel bulbs,
running Rhiannon, you took up
and spoke with washing fire tone:
“love is not written on suburban
grid-maps of city planners,
nor the wandering water droplets
dappling lakeside remnants of
crumbled Gaeltacht castle walls;
it is the spoken clock's conundrum
chime, the rumbling steam train trail
you write of in blazes of interwar
men's coat fashions, women's scarves
trailing celestial, framing aged brick.
And that's what you think?”, smiling.