Offering

If I’d known it was my last Monday, I’d have hired the horse –

galloped along Magheragallon’s shoreline,

naked as a prayer,

untamed Atlantic spray inciting 

a crop of unabashed goosebumps. 

And I’d have offered it all 

to the wind and the wet and the wild.

If I’d known it was my last Tuesday, I’d have bought the silk scarf,

with soaring swans and waterfalls, 

I’d pronounced too youthfully colourful 

for a crone’s neck – and far too dear.

If I’d known it was my last Wednesday, 

I’d have bought the thunder-heavy scent 

that would only get lost in lived-in crepe of skin –

no lover’s nose to find the daub above each breast.

If I’d known it was my last Thursday, 

I’d have painted the fence with polka dots 

and my front door purple, or maybe pink,

with no thought of what neighbours might think.

If I’d known it was my last Friday, 

I’d have bought the flimsy hat, 

with its floppy brim and rainbow of feathers

set in a silver brooch – that would only let the rain right in.

If I’d known it was my last Saturday, 

I’d have bought the beaming boots,

eye-popping yellow patent knee-high platforms,

not extra-wide fitting, triple E, brown slip-on brogues.

On swansong Sunday, they’d come to claim my husk 

and find it festooned with frippery.

As they fluster through a fuchsia-painted doorway –

the unsubtle odour of sandalwood oud 

from Marrakech would hit them in the face.

And all of it proffered 

to the wind and the wet and the wild.