Sligo

 

 

Glendlough 
is bitter cold
this time of year.

night times
we can't leave the
hearthside;

the mere
mention of dawn
being near
makes me tired.

shovel another 
shovel full
of peat into the fire.

A more beautiful girl 
Sligo never saw. 

There, at the 
rectory window,
she brushes her hair

and stares silent as
the drizzle roils 
over the moor,

mist melting to
solid stone.

I admire
from afar.

Frost clings 
to the leaded pane,
but not 
the hearth-heated heart.

Warm your bones
for an hour,
let me pour you another
whiskey sour.

I keep my desire
inside a jar 
beneath the stairs.

That closet 
holds my hopes,

so close the door
against the cold.