Anam Cara

The Grief of Love

Before this line of shore was touched by tide

or ever let the force of moon inside

or this risen land abandoned in the air

with its cargo of grief undreamed and bare,

before sun trembled on the skin of clay

or coaxed trees from dark up to the day,

or twilight ever closed the blue of sky

to open night to colour’s quiet cry,

before the first bird soared over this moor

or sensed insects stir on amber ground

or silence so longed for the echo of sound

that it lured from the sea the strangers here,

before hands unravelled rocks from the hill,

or set stone upon stone to stall the wind

or smoke raised the black breath of earth to air

the secrets the bog held for fire to tell,

in the cry of a well that slips from dark

the earth began to dream you; how it would

polish from precious stones dust for a face,

from tears of sycamores tone for your eyes.

Between us the lost years insist on dreams

that stir like crows among invisible ruins

disturbed by relics of laughter left in rooms

long after weather broke in where we had been.