To Brendan

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I strain to hold what moved you in the tide’s turn,
some shifting of shingle, a weft of kelp, fire
on the horizon.

You sailed between walls of ice, caught the flow
of volcanoes. Green below, mists, elisions
of nimbus and starlight.

Hurled to the gales, the chants that chimed
your hours eddied, drowned, resurfaced:
burst to the beat of the bodhran.

In streets of brick, would you still teach
the touch of current, stability of rolling, curve
and drift of destination?

Wedged between right angles, I stretch
for that unfathomable drive, the migration
of the grey goose.

On solid ground
I am unspent,
unsalted.

 

This poem was also published in the online poetry magazine Ground.

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