A Touch of Heather

There is perhaps no more storied poem in the poet's catalog than "A Touch of Heather". For the two of you out there who have not heard the story...several years ago, the poet was approached by a gentleman associated with a youth group at a Catholic high school for girls in or near Dundalk, Ireland. They were doing a fundraising event for Valentine's Day and were going to be custom-making Valentines (I'm keeping this to the short version). Initially they wanted to use just a few of his poems, but the girls eventually decided to use only DeVault's poems.

But, according to the club sponsor, he had not cleared the poet's works with the nuns. After a review of both the student's selections and the overall base of the poet's works, the project was canceled and the poet's works effectively banned at the school, as "lascivious" and "salacious" (which, by the way, are synonyms). End of story? Not quite.

Three months later, the poet's publisher dropped him a line to let him know that they had received an international order on his second book, "from out of the city". The order was from Dundalk, Ireland.

In honor of perhaps might be that one defiant young woman, he imagined this poem.

A Touch of Heather

And tonight
a young woman
on the cusp of the silence of yesterday
and the variations of tears and joy to come
will read a dog eared copy of her favourite poet
and he will touch her.

Six thousand miles
from where he wrote the words
and three thousand miles from where he lived them
at the time of their emergence from the stream of thought
into ink to press to paper like lips against flesh.
And they will touch her.

The lights flee
to the touch of the nun marking curfew
and she is left with the pale blue curve of moonlight
as she draws the last syllables across her tongue
like the prayer she recited for her teachers this morning.
And they will touch her.

Eyes to mind.
Mind to heart. Heart to hands that play stand in
for a man she'll never meet face to face, flesh to flesh.
But her hands play second to his absence and she learns,
lessons caught in fingertip expressions of borrowed ardour.
And they touch her.

The night reigns.
And she is lost in the exploration of darkness
that draws her from this place, grey walls on the green land.
Her ragged, hot breaths, played out for an abstract lover
on an island touched not by his feet or hands or eyes.
And he touches her.


William F. Devault. all rights reserved.

Sometimes subtitled "for the nuns at Dundalk", I am sure the nuns didn't like this one, either.