Mary Hynes Liam Clancy

That Sunday, on my oath, the rain was a heavy overcoat on a poor poet
And when the rain began in fleeces of water to buck-leap like a goat
I was only a walking penence reaching Kiltartan

And there so suddenly that my cold spine broke out
On the arch of my back in a rainbow
This woman surged out of the day with so much sunlight
That I was nailed there like a scarecrow

But I found my tongue and a breath to balance it, and I said:
"If I'd bow to you with this hump of rain, I'll fall
On my collarbone, but luck I'll chance it"
And after falling bow again she laughed
Ah, she was gracious, and softly she said to me:

"For all Your lovely talking I go marketing with an ass, I know him
I’m no hill-queen, alas, or Ireland, that grass widow, so hurry on
Sweet Raftery, or you’ll keep me late for Mass!"

The parish priest has blamed me for missing second Mass
And the bell talking on the rope of the steeple
But the tonsure of the poet is the bright crash
Of love that blinds the irons on his belfry

Were I making an Aisling I’d tell the tale of her hair
But now I’ve grown careful of my listeners
So I pass over one long day and the rainy air
Where we sheltered in whispers