He styles her Blessed, Beloved,
straddles her to feel her exquisite torque;
when she won’t turn over he wheedles
in tones a spinster might use on a cat:
‘Whisha, come on, girl, be good now.’
She thrums to life and he pets her flank,
sits like a lord on her buckeye seat
and savours her judder beneath him.
After spinning up the boreen to the field,
they furrow, penetrate the earth’s cushion.
On Sundays, they waltz out together to Mass,
a scarlet woman and her biddable man.
