National Poetry Month

Night Air

(for Dermot)

I love your walking in on me each night,
Not the usual wisp and tatter of the
Undressed ghost but resolute and bright
In your own clothes, outstretched hands saying

It is I. But come and see, outside this room
The salvias still bloom, the window breathes
Warm air through rattan slats, in the French door
Shines the bronze haze of the chrysanthemums.

Strange, you are not reflected there. Needing
No space, you are in me. Come, sit down,
Your glass is filled. I thought my heart tomb dark
But love is rogue and it is I who call you

Sheila O'Hagan