Poem of the Week: Hanging House in a Canal, by Mary O’Donnell
It lay on the other side,
the colour of country butter.
I longed to enter any way I could –
by door, window, chimney –
found it locked.
But there was a reflection,
clear as a mirror in the still waters,
the raised brows of dormer windows as it hung there,
upside down, the poking nose of the porch,
the comforting torso of walls.
I stripped off, knew immediately what to do,
dived, entered that beckoning house,
its bubbling whispers an embrace
as I burst through its porch reflection.
Now, within, I am drowning
in secrets, in the company of
water-rats, diving herons, grey roach
With my own, as always.
This week’s poem is from Mary O’Donnell’s new collection, Massacre of the Birds (Salmon Press)