I had a cottage later on.
And this poem was written, I think, out of a trouble I had.
Sometimes, when it would get very late,
it was a three room three bedroom cottage,
and I would have to go back to this very late at night,
and I would find I had trouble going into it.
It seemed very dark and bleak some nights.
And it rains a lot in Ireland.
So I don't have to tell you that.
"The Sky Behind It."
"When it rains, you remember snow.
Always, there is a tree behind it.
And the slant of roofs, thickening, piling on
sleep so the bed drifts.
And you fall again into the best saving shape.
Today, you noticed yourself at a distance and the others
in the foreground.
Just appearances walking so out of harm and hope,
they rose as after a dying, you saw happening to yourself alone
in a far room.
This knowing that whatever you do, it means more than
could possibly happen.
That thought and the satisfaction of music
through and around the house.
If the air would empty, you could
be there as a listening that would move with the rooms.
To stay apart is to dream of the house no one lives in.
You notice the snow so includes each momentary conclusion,
each breath taking entry that something lasts.
For once, you don't discuss it with anyone.
You go in.
You look out the window and see yourself
coming up beside the house to knock at the window.
You let yourself in.
You do.
And the house shows through, dissolving behind the scenes
to the harmony of a set table.
Space for a sigh, the vine, the sky behind it.
So the happy ending arrives like a membership
you suspected all along.
The house is empty.
You let yourself in.
You do.
You go in."