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The Silver TrayAuthor(s): Howard WrightSource: Irish University Review, Vol. 22, No. 2 (Autumn - Winter, 1992), p. 296Published by: Edinburgh University PressStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25484508 .
Accessed: 14/06/2014 04:11
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Howard Wright
The Silver Tray
My hand scurries in the dirndl of light For something familiar, like the tumbler
Of flat Ballygowan, or her pale skin
Drifting with ice wafted through the walls
from the Gaeltacht alley outside.
Weak-eyed, she asserts the digital clock
Pulses with its own bio-rhythms, Then comes to embrace my shadow in a bare hug Until warming engines break the spell, Frost bites the towpath, and the chapel Shakes the canal in its urban angelus.
Her mother's away; she wears slippers And a dressing gown to make breakfast
Before I'm part of the world. When I'm finally
Propped up with the Irish Times' Weekend section
We have agreed on the weather, and she
Has made plans that fit easily into the landscape.
Everything is settled, and slowly, Like a fuse, the silver tray on my knees
Percolates heat through the blankets, And she gets in, giving me my name
On the strength of her native tongue.
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This content downloaded from 195.78.109.83 on Sat, 14 Jun 2014 04:11:15 AMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
