Morning raga

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



Return to the list of writers.