At the B&B in Donegal
the landlady with braids,
in a cardigan like shredded moss,
greets us at the old oak door.
She’s not much older than we are.
Dusk presses at the windows,
as she serves us tea
in pink china cups
before the peat fire.
Weary from the drive,
you reach
for pound cake.
Upstairs, you’re in the sea green room,
while I sleep in the rector’s study:
a room with liturgical echoes.
On the narrow bed,
in silk pyjamas,
I read a yellowed paperback
of Fear of Flying,
extracted from theological shelves.
At breakfast
a couple from Dublin asks:
Whyever would you fly into Belfast?
It’s the turf of our grandfathers we say.
A bowl of red plums,
stewed and glistening
is passed
in silence.