Martine McDonagh

I don’t like to be seen.

Only one person ever sees me

Overhead the heron beats in. The full stretch of his wings rakes the air.

There’s a bucket, blown on a gale and snagged by a tree. Pale blue like a patch of old sky that forgot to turn grey

The wall on either side of the gate has been demolished and the deer come and go

Only one person ever sees me, and it is him I am going to now.

Only one person ever sees me, and it is him I am going to now.

Only one person ever sees me, and it is him I am going to now.

Only one person ever sees me, and it is him I am going to now.

Only one person ever sees me, and it is him I am going to now.