I had been listening to John O’Donohue
Talking about place, about longing
He had mentioned mountains, streams
Far away horizons
I had watched Boy George on television
Trying to trace his roots in Ireland
He was taken back to the struggles
To the hanging room in Mountjoy Gaol
I slept all night in our bed
That is I did not wake
With my usual aching shoulder
Nor move to the spare room, so as not to disturb
I woke with the words already formed
All I had to do was to write them down
Having done that
I found another poem waiting for me
