January That is no season for the margins, the thin Forlorn cries of seabirds along an empty shore, The exhausted light turning a haggard face To the overwhelming clouds, and the sodden clay Of the retreating cliff falling in dribs and drabs. I will go inland awhile, accept the shelter of woods, The texture of bark and knotted twigs, will ease Myself into the dark of leaf-mould, nut-mast, And become familiar with warm, hidden stirrings Among the blind, white protuberances of bulbs.
Paddy Bushe
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