IrelandsPoetPatriots

The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit By the earthed lightening of a flock of swans, Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white

And Time bade all his candles flare To light a measure here and there; And may the thoughts of Ireland brood Upon a measured quietude.

Near the fall it’s more a booming, loud enough to drown out all other sound with the loudness of silence pouring over into itself & on.

What I've really missed are not papers or books, but a settling in my soul. I've missed you, your garden & its sway of flowers Tony Curtis

Love that is every miracle Is torn apart & rent. The human turns awry The poles of the firmament. .. & good again is spent. Thomas Kinsella