GILL McEVOY

POT-HOLING

"Don't go," I begged, but you would,
so I did too.
I watched the soles of your shoes escape
from the thin beam of my torch
and knew it was my turn
to learn to burrow in the dark.

I'm sorry I let you down:
when I felt the Earth's great weight
against my ribs I knew I couldn't do it.
I'm sorry I screamed so loud:
I'm glad that nothing fell
on anyone down there.

We don't speak of it; the subject's
locked inside the tunnels of the mind.
Sometimes the weight of it
squeezes me so hard I must speak -
but you just squirm away
in a squeak of rubber shoe. 

BIOPSY

As you gently take my breast,
ready to sink your needle in,
I shudder, not from fear of pain,
but where the loneliness begins. 

END OF RELATIONSHIP

"Give it time," they said
and so she did: she gave it
minutes, hours, days.

He never gave it
a second thought.

CONVERTED CHAPEL

There are seven skylights now
set into the roof and, probably,
over the old beams a planked floor slung
to make a sleeping platform.
No stained glass in the old rose-window now:
everything done to let in light.

At night when you lie like a
snug rat in your undisturbed,
uncurtained loft, do you sometimes
marvel at the moon? 


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