Anam Cara

THE SECRET OF THERENESS

For Martin Downey

And the earth fled to the lowest place.*

And the mystery of the breeze,

Arising from nowhere, could be

A return of unrequited memory

Awake at last to a sense of loss,

Stirring up the presences in these fields,

Clutches of thistle roll their purple eyes,

Grasses wave in a trembling whisper,

Profusions of leaf dance slowly

On the low spires of rowan trees;

In fields and walls the granite ones

Never waver from stillness, stones

Who know a life without desire,

Each dwells in its own distance

From night acclaimed by twilight

And day released through dawn.

Utterly focused in their stance,

Stones praise the silence of time.