On the third day as soon as the moon allows
the woman runs towards the glowing tomb
without sleep, crossing the river, kicking stones
in her haste, disturbing sheep, losing a sandal,
rushing through the traders setting up their stalls,
thanking the light, riding the planet,
testing phrases, opening up her lungs,
steadying her hands to touch, trusting the dust.
From Poetry Ireland Review, 1994, revised version
copyright David Hart
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