Thin Places
The wild meadow weave, the strand,
places of late summer, autumn,
a stone skimming water, suspended
in air, its slow motion glide punctuated
by the drop, touch, rise of a ghostly presence,
this wary hesitation between water
and stone, mysterious as the rift between
music notes in air, unsettling the familiar light
which shudders again with tiny rainbow bubbles
holding air-drops in. And then the final slide over
gravity’s edge, into polished bottomless depths,
beyond the belly-aching threshold⎯
dropping, ever dropping, into the quiet
whispering, the unspeakable tenderness.
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Binn ÉadairI have waited through the long winter grey the sun a warm breath on my neck, Far below, the murmurings of wind and water the whole of the blue sky is stretched wide, |
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