In the air there’s a sound
reviving and bound
for the inner ear,
a note sketched out
below a rug floating
there about three ages
removed from the pages
strewn with grooves
barely crowned.
Words are majesty
regal tenants of the well
resounding
Utterances as dances
vowing to work
miracles
Places for space and space for places
names that an age back
meant more than nostalgy
Inventions from an page
of cloud cover
blanket-wrap, infant howls
The wage earned in deep preparation
for entry
along the narrow passage you never remember
except in dreams.
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 