By Sonja Broderick

Only you could peel me
from my morning bed,
make me cut a bath short
so my hair drips
as I check for your words.

Only you could make me see
a poem in the mundanity,
make me daydream
in a crowded room,
swoon with delight
at the tip of a talk
blighted with tragedy.

Only you could make the waves
on a Kerry beach break more easy
or change the dressing
on my wounded soul.

Only you can deliver
the baby of my desire,
gather up the frayed ends of me,
make the music breathe its fire
and the birds sing so much higher
than they ever did.

Only you could feed me honey,
take away the dread.
Only you could do this.
Only you.

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