by Doireann Ní Ghríofa
Three weeks after her birth
I wrap my tiny daughter in a rainbow blanket
and wheel her to the forest.
There, I see poems in each clutch of wildflowers
in ragwort, convolvulus, buttercup,
thistle. In that sharp tall growth,
it is impossible not to see her birth
my belly that grey–green bauble–blister,
a plump bud on narrow stem, where a girl emerges,
sudden as a crisp purple bloom.
I want so much
to return to those brutal days,
to meet myself stumbling down a dark
corridor at 3 am
towards her incubator.
I would grasp my hand
you will walk together on forest paths
and this hospital will no longer be
visible, even in the distance.