Bray, Co Wicklow, February 16, 2026
(for Sylvia)
Forgive me, Sylvia, but I hardly
recognised you in your light blue
mini dress and your fake tan, amid
a gaggle of girls just as riotously attired,
all on your merry way to your first disco.
Suddenly, in the mere blink of an eye, you are
a teenager, and quite the lady: polite, poised,
graceful (and very droll) to everyone you meet,
though perhaps not always to those at home,
and not least to your litttle sister, though she,
thank heavens, is a stubborn soul who can give
as good as she gets when unreasonably taunted.
Be that as it may: certainly the tiny tomboy,
with all her volatile fragility, has vanished.
Do I miss her? Of course I do, but the girl
into whom she has grown (and who remains
intriguingly volatile) offers more than enough
to make up for memories of the child who’s gone.
