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 unselfconscious 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 exotic perfume
that would only get lost in lonely, lived-in crepe of skin—
no lover’s nose to seek 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 not a thought of what the neighbours might think.

If I’d known it was my last Friday, I’d have bought the flimsy hat
with its wide, 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 yellow boots,
patent knee-high platforms, like those I wore a lifetime ago,
instead of extra-wide fitting, triple E, brown slip-on brogues.

On swansong Sunday, they’d come to claim the husk
and find it festooned with frippery.
As they fluster through a fuchsia-painted doorway,
the unsubtle odour of sandalwood oud from Marrakesh
would hit them in the face.
And I’d have offered it all to the wind and the wet and the wild.