I want to talk to you of the glowing embers, on this damp and foggy Connemara afternoon
Ask you to fill your nostrils, with the aromas of slow burning logs, from the fireplace of the head gardeners cottage
I want to sit by you, as a reconstruction; you sat in my armchair, me on the floor, I will leave the desk-work until the morning
We might witness our lives in the fires flames, sense our excitement, with occasional sparks of emotion
The liquor will warm us, as also might the Donegal woven blanket, thrown over us, when we pull closer together
I want to talk to you of the glowing embers, you my mother superior, in this house of Benedictine nuns
