Little Song

For three nights in granny’s house, they open
her box to the rafters (laughter, song)
& watch stars fall to dance the bog. Cotton-
white they dart, like lanterned runners, dear born
under the moon’s folded eye (a quartz sliced
above the lough). The sky wants us to know:
Dan Shea’s sweet pulse has turned her bones to light.
This is how her body takes its last bow.

Kitty, her straw & berry tresses, queen
of all colours, pouring from blood to milk;
pale as the Tomb of Coom, where her chambered kin
are folded: ossiary becoming moss. Silk—
ottersoft, her shroud is sung to gossamer.
Snowthaw & on the hill, only a hare.