after Seamus Heaney

her hands were bright

and rough with so much

gleaning

when I saw them again

late afternoon

they were two swallows

in clay cliffs

knitting light

into caves

august night

in the echo of

a cumulus cloud

struck to earth

you will find a

door dark

and made of

pasture

open

slowly pressing

with every cell

of self

until a tumble of

peaches

skinned with light

raptures your

lap