after “ June” by Dermot Healy
Leaving the openness of summer sea.
The borders shattered in the swarming sun.
A narrowing busy light
is now alluring you in its might.
It’s river, purpose, direction.
And you feel drawn
into the rust-like beckoning
of the withering cornstalks,
tall ruins standing and fluttering
on furrows awakening walk,
land back on land
and dust in a straight gust
along the shiny rustle of crows.