Moya Cannon


The suitcase is only half-unpacked
the washing not done,
the floor not swept,
but the oven is humming,
a sticky bowl and spoon
are in the sink
and the old alchemy of water,
flour and leaven has begun.

Soon high crusts will gild,
three loaves will be tapped
from their tins,
an aroma will flow
through keyholes,
will slip
over chipped saddle-boards,

proclaiming more eloquently
than a thrush delivering
its blue and gold aria
from the top of a telegraph pole,
than a procession
with lifted banners
and trumpets,
than a dog panting wagging circles
around a room,
Home, home, home, home!

From Donegal Tarantella, Carcanet Press, 2019