Your perfume hangs in the dark air
that surrounds us. In our windowless room,
with tired hands, you are reshaping tragedy,
suffering for nine months of the year.
I suspect the whole thing may be killing you
but remain silent. It is November:
outside the whisper of cars on the wet street
takes the place of all lapsed words
while your troubled dreams ghost the room
in which we lie; gentle, now ungentle;
chained, now unchained. What can I do for you
other than collect your secrets and your sadnesses?
Then lie awake as Belfast gets rewritten
in the wet Autumn greyness, houses and tall places
taking shape beyond our windowless room
in which we lie, wrapped in the quiet air.
