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james mcgonigal
Poet  •  Critic

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       Turning Over in a Strange Bed

Living with women is like turning
over in a strange bed at night
and trying to find your watch
and trying to read its face

or like living in a landscape
which is Donegal to your Galloway
with something like the same hills
with nothing like the same water

splashing down to a greener sedge.
Alongside your road they run like a river
your road follows valleys carved out by water
that is still peaty enough and cool

to quench your daily thirst.
Their blood is legendary and their sweat
on the right occasion never to be forgotten
while their tears remain unpredictable

by any instrument you will ever possess.
 

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