October 24, 2003

The Lost Heifer


As the resolution to the impasse in Northern Ireland hangs in the balance, Austin Clarke seems more relevant than ever.

When the black herds of the rain were grazing,
In the gap of the pure cold wind
And the watery hazes of the hazel
Brought her into my mind,
I thought of the last honey by the water
That no hive can find.

Brightness was drenching through the branches
When she wandered again,
Turning sliver out of dark grasses
Where the skylark had lain,
And her voice coming softly over the meadow
Was the mist becoming rain.


Posted by Monasette at October 24, 2003 05:12 PM | TrackBack
Comments

Nice poem. I shall look him up.

Posted by: ExpatEgghead at October 27, 2003 12:58 PM