Three Poems

Lace Swans

In a glass case in Country Antrim
her children sit, four lace swans.
She whispers what she should have said,

they should have sailed on fine spun silk.

Blond and black boned, thread trawl,
Minonet, Hanover lace,
the quartet, moored in her memory.

They should have sailed on sheer satins.

Laces worn on different occasions,
Carrickmacross guipure, play time, games,
Carrickmacross appliqué, opera, Sunday wear.

They should have sailed on calico.

The world overflowing with babies,
bundles of Irish lace their cries aren't crochet
or lean white damask.
...