SWANS IN THE MIST

Markree Castle

Mist rises on the river: even the swans
are lost in silence        This water
has forgotten its sheen    its tide pools

and current    but it holds the light
cast down from burnt edges
of charred clouds

Trees have already darkened:
the merest smudge
against the river’s sinuous bed

Soon, the country will lose its shape,
all depth engulfed by a muffled blackness

This is the land that offers no escape
where the mind sails out alone
in the last flush of brightness

This is where rain is speech
where the notes of song your lips remember
are droplets of fire and poetry

Ireland, your blood fills this dark
and misty river that winds back on itself
like the curved necks of swans.