“And then the sun”

And then the sun came slicing sideways,

clear water reflecting it, giving it slant.

A gloss of rain so quick and light that day

hardly made a sound. The thought of sheets

hung out and drying on the line, of seeds

in soil and soil itself, the glutting ends

of stems of leaves that will them to let fall

up and out and through the trees, the shape

that shoots could take, of you

and this moment as it happens:

our echoing hush as we try to hold

the close music of the blackbird in the bush.

And then the sun continued on.

Lough Neagh cooled under the firm keels

of fishing boats on the water’s taut skin,

their painted hulls in pointed arcs

an emblem of balance so finely wrought

that they could tell the weight of light or air.

Each night we walk along the shore,

expecting still to find your sturdy figure

waist-deep in waders, plumbing darkness,

hauling it in, but never again your grip

on the reel and never again the deft music

of the blackbird nesting in your hand.