She came – like a story – into words
from roots planted deep in the womb of her mother’s mystery.
She came – like a foal – from that womb,
a filly full of windswept curls.
She crawled on kitchen floors – between legs of chairs –
until she stood steady and strode past barricades and cant.
She rode her way into her biography
on ponies that foostered – she put manners on their stride.
She carries the weight of her imagination on her back
every morning – on her way to school.
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 