'and light since then
. . . a keyhole rusting gently after rain’ *
[in memory of Derek Mahon]
Or space a cat-flap breathing in the wind,
or solace dry logs nestling on the grate.
Anticipation.
Feeble will withers in the gloom —
twilight perpetual, and then
the darkness of renewed despair.
Only that keyhole, the firmament’s one star,
feels just like hope,
a hope that’s dashed at every sunset,
raised with every sunrise.
Who among us yet can persevere
through the long blackness —
once doughty hearts now weakened, faltering
without a touch, a kindness, a shared
note of humble grace
until the door is opened wide,
a smiling gesture
to ignite us, carry us, as in our dreams,
into a blaze of warming glory,
where we might breathe
a sentiment of that often-promised land
our path illumined by the blinding light.
* from A Disused Shed in Co. Wexford
Larry Winger. 21/12/20
Biome NE47 