These lovely offerings from Annemarie Ní Churreáin.
Openly, the sea prays
against the moon’s lead….. the pier’s edge….. the palm-trees
as I sway beneath a ringlet of your hot breath.
And though we know nothing yet of cruelty,
there is a vague bloodedness in the air,
the scent of bulls on the heels of men,
…………..a red hem flaring poppies.
Soon, the dust-clouds will spin
like none seen
at Las Ventas.
The villagers did not unite
but instead, they set about their days as usual,
posting letters, buying fruit, forming queues in the bank
They said little
but within that little lay much;
little was a gated field in which something extraordinary was
They held to their inner selves
in emergencies of projected light.
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