Before I left my Ireland,
I folded the hills, and my mates, and the songs we shared,
into a green pocket square
that I carried with me
for all the crossing.

And today my great-great grandchildren – who I confess,
rarely, if ever, crossed the threshold of my mind,
are laying a teapot down, at a gathering.

Most of the stories never reached them,
but there is the fabric –
and what little do we know of each other, really,
except that which we know by hand,
every fabric carrying ships
across the ocean