Street by Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin

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He fell in love with the butcher’s daughter

When he saw her passing by in her white trousers

Dangling a knife on a ring at her belt.

He stared at the dark shining drops on the paving-stones.

 

One day he followed her

Down the slanting lane at the back of the shambles.

A door stood half-open

And the stairs were brushed and clean,

Each tread marked with the red crescent

Her bare heels left, raiding to faintest at the top.

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