Through the mist, misery, mystery
wrapped around the ruined monastery,
he comes back to his beloved Inishbofin,
lulled by the ocean in his shiny coffin.
Here are the fiddles, guitars and accordion
waiting to wake him, to welcome him home.
Brawny hands heave him up the pier,
not allowing the wind to part
his and the hands they used to shake
often and hard. To the graveyard
of sea-facing headstones, up the hill,
down the winding bramble road
sails his broken and silent heart
in his mastless boat.

Victoria Melkovska was born in Ukraine but has lived in Dublin for 20 years, reporting from the city for Ukrainian Radio. Today’s poem is from her recently published collection For the Birds (Dedalus Press)