At that time of year there is a turn in the road where
the hermit tones and meadow colours of
two seasons heal into
one another—
when the wild ladder of a winter scarf is stored away in
a drawer eased by candle-grease and lemon balm
is shaken out from
the linen press.
Those are afternoons when the Dublin hills are so close,
so mauve and blue, we can be certain dark
will bring rain and
it does to
the borrowed shears and the love-seat in the garden where
a sparrow hawk was seen through the opal-
white of apple trees
after Easter. And
I want to know how it happened that those days of
bloom when
rumours of wings and sightings—always seen by
someone else, somewhere else—
filled the air,
together with a citrus drizzle of petals and clematis
opening,
and shadows waiting on a gradual lengthening
in the light our children
stayed up
later by, over pages of wolves and dragons and learned to
measure the sanctuary of darkness by a small
danger—how and why
they have chilled
into these April nights I lie awake listening for wings I
will
never see above the cold frames and
last frosts of our
back gardens.
- Eavan Boland