The bickering of vowels on the buses,
the clicking thums and the big hips of
the navy-skirted ticket collectors with
their crooked seams brought it home to me:
Exile. Ration-book pudding.
Bowls of dripping and the fixed smile
of the school pianist playing 'Ioalanthe'
'Land of Hope & Glory' and 'John Peel'.

I didn't know what to hold, to keep.
At night , filled with some malaise
of love for what I'd never known I had,
I feel asleep and let the moment pass.
The passing moment has become a night
of clipped shadows, freshly painted houses,
the garden eddying in dark and hear,
my children half-awake, half-asleep.

Airless, humid, dark, leaf-noise
The stirrings of a garden before rain.
A hint of storm behind the risen moon.
We are what we have chosen. Did I choose to?
In a strange city, in another country,
on nights in a north-facing bedroom,
waiting for the sleep that never did
restore me as I'd hoped to what I'd lost

Let the world I knew come between the space
between the words that I had by heart
and all the other speech that always was
becoming the language of the country that
I came to in nineteen fifty-one:
barely-gelled, a freckled six-year-old,
overdressed and sick on the plane,
when all of England to an Irish child
was nothing more than what you'd lost and how:
was the teacher in the London convent who
when I pronounced "I amn't" in the classroom
turned and said-"You're not in Ireland now."