THEODORA
Ursula K. Le Guin
Cuimhnímse ar mo mháthair, bean bhreá.
Chaithfeá a bheith ceanúil uirthi féin is a giuirléidí.
Na bráisléid thurcaide, an gúna dinnéir
corcairghorm gona bhásta seodmhar.
An bealach a dtéadh sí thart
agus í ag baint di - a cuid riteog níolóin scaoilte.
Smaoiním ar an méid sin go léir anois le croí lách
agus is sólás dom é.
Ó nach mise a bhí i bhfeirg léi faoina bás
nuair a cailleadh í, ach nílim a thuilleadh, fá dheoidh,
agus seo chugam arís í, airgead
agus turcaid ar a riostaí aici
faoi sholas na gréine.
I think how fine my mother was.
Her doings and her things were lovable.
Her turquoise bracelets, her violet
dinner dress with a jeweled waist.
The way when she was undressing
she'd go around with her nylons unhitched.
I think of all this now with tenderness
and comfort in the recollection.
Oh I was so angry at her when she died
for dying, but at last that's gone
and she comes to me again with silver
and turquoise on her wrists
in the sunlight.
