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.
2 comments:
Like this very much, its simplicity allied with truths not always obvious. The final three lines, compelling.
I particularly like:
the rust-like beckoning
of the withering cornstalks
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