Hard won,
this wildest of adulteries.
Husband, now relieved,
clinks glasses in the pub;
they're all wetting the baby’s head.
Sons, no longer needed,
slither off to school.
Pillows still
the way your Irish midwife
plumped them.
And here,
in sparrow fold of shawl
and towel, fretted,
her tiny purple head.
So now light climbs to your high window;
and, flying round the room
like golden snitch to seeker,
her name,
faint whispered,
is still your closest secret.
