I saw one of my poems translated
in a book of love poems from Scotland,
and it felt strange that an affair
that lasted only three weeks
(but in whose wake I floundered long after)
was there in the name of eternal commitment.

It was stranger yet to see the images,
some born of other Gaelic songs,
some brought down by the arrow of rhyme,
standing naked and incongruous in English,
with no mention that Gaelic
was either the midwife or the bow.

But let the changeling make its way -
its umbilical cord with me is cut;
if it speaks to some of enduring love
may theirs be the blessing of love that lasts,
but let this particular revelation be mine
that reality and poetic truth are not the same.