Gentle thoughts for an estranged child

And child of mine she stays, my baby of nearly thirty-seven who loved ironing and feeding the poor and drawing and writing and expounding on every theory with her encyclopaedic knowledge of just about everything. A fierce scrabble player, Harley Davidson rider, music lover, drum player. And on. She lives in Ireland and there shelives and loves well, I hope.
Written yesterday and emailed to her, my gorgeous, brilliant, Irish daughter.
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Reflections on a Steam Iron

The steam from the iron
Threading the needle eye
Of the crack in
The laundry room window.

Floating upwards to the
Sky above and across
Four thousand miles of sea
And falling softly on

You
There.

Ironing too. Pressing
Cutting butter edges
Into soft cotton trousers
And razor creased sleeves on
To Goodwill linen shirts.

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