At the turning of the light, the ascent into the dark, the entanglement, the mending, Old Bitch Béal Feirste wraps herself in her hand-me-downs.
Shawls, scarf, socks, screels and sonnets. Body below caked in drying Divis muck, face red from Bearna na Gaoithe.
She tucks herself in for the longest night beneath Bean Madigan, talking in tongues of rare calm. Of nothing being so broken that it can’t be of use even one more time.
All the while, starlings flit in bewildering forms along her bloodstream and curlews play with the kinks in her auburn hair.
'Take it easy,' she murmurs to herself, ourselves overhearing, 'a crescent moon is never that far off.
'