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Eamon Grennan
A Breath of Wind


I 221n the chronicles of the overlooked

try to register again

this big life-giving breath

that never stops gathering light

and spreading it in every direction. 

Cloud comes, goes, hauling

its grave weight, letting its

particle-drench tend everything

and be a downhill quickness

baring rocks so they glitter, feeding

tall, blood-letting, blue-headed

thistles, making thin green rushes

glisten in the wind

that here on the very edge of things

can’t let you be—so you may go

about and about only, squinting

into what’s there and isn’t there, all appetite

for any slow explosion of

unearned felicity.  And now

in its spaciousness and light

this local wind’s all exhalation—

gusting southeast, northeast, no telling

what a half-god of earth and air will do—

pushing, rushing, hushing

towards its sole rest, the silence

it settles in along mute grass blades

and stilled sycamore leaves,

even among these dead

in shaken bundles at your shut front door,

where it will get its breath back

to bear itself off in a flurry-hurry

and flow away from where you stand

feeling again the way it came unbidden,

so you would close your eyes

a moment and be in it,

though you’ll open them again

under the starless mantle of darkness,

night-walking home alone after midnight

and knowing the gale’s full

brunt and buffet, its burly unavailing

out-breath like a last love-gasp

through the pine grove and no holding it.


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  Dublin Poetry Review: Éigse Átha Cliath


                                                                                        Section 1 ~ Issue 21a