The gloaming is that time in the evening when the light is transforming. In certain places, like Kerry and Cuilleonaughtan and in Sweden in the Summer, the gloaming lasts long enough for a good long walk.
There, in the hand, a small bird Neatly crafted, complete But for one wing One wing in the making One bird in the hand of the Maker The bird in the hand, a soft weight Warm with the lifeblood, Written, sketched, into being Being fleshed, dressed in down Each quill in the hand ofContinue reading “Purpose”
In The Golden Echo Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote “give beauty back to God”. When asked what beauty was, I couldn’t fit the Truth into my hands, and I’m afraid I let the moment pass.
This is revision 2 of this poem. I find myself trying to explain the noises and sensations of swimming at depths I couldn’t possibly know and wouldn’t survive. Dúlemán is a kind of seaweed, collected for food (and other uses). It never grows alone, as one strand, and is ever so fragile, and ever so strong.
After Landscape with the Fall of Icarus, c.1555, Pieter Bruegel
If I write about someone that, whether they know or not, has altered the fabric of me, do I take something from them, is it selfish, or do I carry them, like the finest jewellery, or silver scar?
Two small donkeys, in a field of tattered things.