Between islands
John
F. Deane
I stood,
reaching my hand up
to grasp his hand;
over
the island of Achill
the night sky was vast,
star
after star drawing my face upwards,
the
depths and silence,
his silence answering;
he
hoisted me
onto a plinth of bog earth
where
I was lost, suddenly afraid,
watching the star sheen on his face.
(from
"The Stylized City", Dedalus Press)
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