It was the summer I lost her
that we played hurling on the strand,
the Kerry sun heating our hearts
with giddy laughter at such rare
moments. The plonk of the hurley
ball, the smash of the ash, the spray
of the Dingle surf on my face,
all this would come back to me in chapel
as they wheeled her coffin in like a
baby's pram. We all kneeled and prayed
the prefatory for the dead, hoping it
wouldn't rain until after the burial.
Inside my fabric was rent with the burst
of her laughter on that tropic day. A
thunderbolt that nearly sent me toppling
into the tangled net of her coral black hair.