Seán Og draped his jacket
Around my shoulders
To hug me
From the chill, close
Damp
Of the Rahoon holy well.
We were blessed, ourselves,
Standing together
In the weak
Pale light bursting
Young and eager
From behind the cross -

But I think
Saint Grellan might have
Not altogether approved
Of us,
Heads bowed, and
Seán Og's fingers chipping
Steadily at the jagged red
Paint still left on my nails.

We blinked at each other
In the fog and heather
And sweet slow water,
Our stilted, awkward movements
Just that tender,
Painful;
Coming to us
As naturally as breathing.