Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh
I saw her amid the dunghill debris
Looking for things
Such as an old pair of shoes or gaiters.
She was a young woman,
A tinker's wife.
Her face streaks of care
Like wires across it,
But she was supple
As a young goat
On a windy hill.
She searched on the dunghill debris,
Tripping gingerly
Over tin canisters
And sharp-broken
Dinner plantes.