Rebecca, our first-born,now thirty-nine
flies in to check that I am well again
and spots beside the bed the photograph
I took of you when you were carrying her
six months gone in your purple polo-neck
and blue smock, and laughing, I remember,
because I have decorated with sea pinks
your black abundant hair, and given you
foxgloves to hold as though to welcome her
to the strand at Inch and the Kerry hills.
Can you go on smiling from your dune-throne
with your hair and hands full of summer flowers?
Because the marram grass is damp and sandy
I have spread a yellow oilskin under you.
A Hundred Doors