Storm Diary Sean lysaght


image credit gallerypress

Wind from the east is a banshee wailing

at the door, from the west a howling chimney.

The worst nights, the car is tense as a cat.

The two of us are there at the center

of force nines shaking the gate and rattling

the loose slates of our insistence:

we have made the right choice. Hours of telly,

journals entries, phone calls from outside

pass our time in the light house with a query

(even as the whitethorns  I planted knuckle

down and shy away from standing straight).

How many winters before our hears are

twisted? And the wind answers: by the time

you know that, it will already be too late.



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