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Eamon Grennan

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In This Instant

The tern’s slow strokes against the wind palping it
before the pause the drop the vanishing. Or to be
on the go always, headlong heartstrong heartwhole
like the sandmartin in the behind-the-wind silence
of the cliff-face, the sound of it matching the clicking
of two stones in your pocket while the lark cries out
on high, wired to its spot and going musically mad
before the stop the drop the silence, then the greeting
the sandmartin gets at the pueblo opening as she
slows hovers stops to enter and no grain disturbed
while a single pink of thrift shakes its desiccate head
shivering, and near the road the bee deals with
the buttercup, the buttercup with the bee, and every
thing is buzz and tremble till an instant’s stillness,
insidedness, you feel the give and take of it, all the
rhyme reason speechless recognition of it, and proceed.

 

Page(s) 29

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