Nuair a d’fhágais
do churachán coirt bheithe
taobh leis an dtoinn
ag cur ceangal
lae is bliana uirthi
i gcás ná beifeá riamh uaithi
ach aon uair a’ chloig amháin,

do chuiris dhá théad i muir
agus téad i dtír uirthi
in áit nach raibh
tonn dá bualadh,
gaoth dá luascadh,
grian dá grianscoltadh
nó fiú préacháin an aeir
ag déanamh caca uirthi.

Tú féin a bhí tar éis
í a thógaint ó bhonn,
ag saoirseacht ar bhalcóin
do thí samhraidh,
ag fí meathán agus tuigí dearga
i bhfráma naomhógach.
D’aithníos láithreach tú
is thuig an gaol
nach féidir a shéanadh
a chuirfidh orm an doras a dhúnadh
amach anseo
le hosna thuirseach.

Is dála an phailnithe tré uisce
a imíonn ar lus na ribín
mar a scaoiltear aníos na blátha fireann
ó íochtar an duibheagáin
is go snámhann na staimíní lastaithe
le gráinníní troma pailín,
iad á gcumhdach ó uachtar an uisce
ag báidíní beaga pontúin
na bpiotal,

seol, a bhuachaillín
seol do bhád
isteach sna trí phiotal gléineacha
atá im’ chroí im’ lar.

Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill (publ. 2000)

When you had left
your boat of birch bark
beside the wave
binding her
for a year and a day
in case you would ever
be away even an hour,

with two lines in the sea
and one on land you bound her
in a place where no
wave could strike her,
wind could sway her,
sun could split her
or even crows in the air
could be soiling her.

You yourself had
built her from scratch,
working on a balcony
of your summer house,
weaving splints and red willow
in a coracle frame.
You knew at once
and knew the wind
that it can’t be denied
will make me close the door
from here on
with a tired sigh.

As pollinated through water
that plays on seaweed
as the male flower breaks out
from the bottom of the deeps
and as the stamens swim
heavily laden with grains of pollen,
protected from the water surface
in little pontoon boats
of petals,

sail, little boy,
sail your boat
into the three shining petals
that are in my heart in my breast.