To walk that road again –
a lane? Passed stubbled fields.
Kildarra up to Nolan’s farm.
Pick purple blackberries on the way.
A small child’s handful.
Turn left at milk churns waiting
by wild fushias live with bees.
We squeeze their scarlet flowers –
lick sweet nectar off our sun kissed skin.
Norah’s there, Helena’s ma,
to mash our berries in a cup,
with sugar and churn top milk
so fresh it’s warm.
We cross the yard.
Open a splintery stable door
a crack, our mouths like rosebuds.
Banbhs run squealing between our legs,
drunk like us, with freedom.
And Norah watches, laughing from the kitchen door,
wipes hands on her cotton apron
and stirs the pig mash.