It’s
a paltry thing that
sparkler
on your finger,
when,
on a
sunny
morning,
I will
present you
with
ten miles of dazzling
lake almost
to the
door.
Or
an emerald, when my house is sitting at the bottom
of
blazing green fields, and the same all the way to the sea,
two
counties to the west, three to the east.
Or
amethyst, when the
boreen is crowded with
foxgloves
ringing
their bells for the
attention of bumble bees
who’ll
be losing
their
heads in
nectar
from May to September.
Or
rubies, when the
hedges are brimming with myriad constellations
of
fuchsia; even the
ash, high on the hill,
outshines them with its
harvest
of
late evening sun gathered
in sprays
of blood-bright
berries.
And
that
gold bangle on your wrist, how
dull it will look beside
the daffodils
under
the beech trees not a hundred yards from
my
house, or June’s
irises
with
blooms
like laughter among
the flaggers opposite
Scanlon’s old shed.
Over
by the
privet hedge, you’ll
have all the pearls
you could wish for
come
the end of January;
snowdrops, promising
the year’s beauty,
will
be yours every January,
if only you’d
come live in my cottage.
