by Eavan Boland
I have been wondering
what I have to leave behind, to give to my daughters.
No good offering the view
between here and Three Rock Mountain,
the blueness in hours before rain, the long haze afterwards.
The ground I stood on was never really mine. It might not ever be theirs.
And gifts that were passed through generations -
silver and the fluid light after silk - were never given here.
This is an island of waters, inland distances,
with history of want and women who struggled
to make the nothing which was all they had
into something they could leave behind.
I learned so little from them: the lace bobbin with its braided mesh,
its oat-straw pillow and the wheat-coloured shawl
knitted in one season
to imitate another
are all crafts I never had
and can never hand on. But then again there was a night
I stayed awake, alert and afraid, with my first child
who turned and turned; sick, fretful.
When dawn came I held my hand over the absence of fever,
over skin which had stopped burning, as if I know the secrets
of health and air, as if I understood them
and listened to the silence
and thought, I must have learned that somewhere.
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