The Night Grainne Yeats Sang
'Molly Malone' to the Irish Harp

The smell of sea clatters down cobblestone
Through memories and projections of Inverness:
The squeak of rust, rattle of wheel
Against unevenness and earthbone.
   Cockles! Mussels! Alive, alive-o!

The eyelids shudder up against the music's
Pulse to see images exchange themselves.
You are the Molly I had dreamed;
Your harp is made of wheelbarrow wood.
   Cockles! Mussels! Alive, alive-o!

The trance of my wait is verses long;
The harp contains its music as carelessly
As wheelbarrows contain the fruits of the sea.
This is the electricity visions run on.
   Cockles! Mussels! Alive, alive-o!

A reluctance clings to the last moments of
The final verse. Our applause barely sits.
Then I see the twitch of your cheek that
Turns the last note back into the dream.
   Cockles! Mussels! Alive, alive-o!