SARAH ON HOLIDAY Ballyvaughan; peat and salt. The wind bawls across these mountains, scalds the orchids of the Burren. They used to leave milk out once on these windowsills, to ward away child-stealing spirits. The sheets are damp. We sleep between the blankets. The light cotton of the curtains lets the light in. You wake first thing and in your five-year-size striped nightie you are everywhere, trying everything: the springs on the bed, the hinges on the windows. You know your a's and b's; but there's a limit now to what you'll believe. When dark comes I leave a superstitious feast of wheat biscuits, apples, orange juice out for you; and wake to find it eaten. -- Eavan BOLAND (b. 1944 Dublin)