Dermot Bolger

This is what I am wedded to:
The bus journey in the dusk,
Tailbacks, roadworks, queues,
Tired faces staring into space
Thrown forward in our seats
As the driver applies the brakes,
Intrusive glimpses into lives
As strangers chat on phones.

The name carved on a boulder
At the entrance to our estate,
The sweep of curving rooftops,
The bicycles left on the path,
Hopscotch marked out in chalk.

The light in the kitchen window
When she gets home before me,
The bustle of pots, the radio
Blathering about the outside world,
A scent of spices as she says hello,
Busy stirring a dish at the stove.

The voice of the woman I wed,
Who makes every aspect blessed,
This kitchen, this suburban street,
This bus trip like a pilgrimage
Back to where I may finally lie
With my bride amid shoals of roofs,
Amid the vast galaxies of estates,
Amid the myriad specks of light,
In the place where I am safe,
Where I wake deep in the night
And touch her sleeping face.





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