Remembering the Brent geese,
puffed chests, the ferment
of their grassy bellies full,
marching out to sea
from the Shellybanks
to some Icelandic fjord,
I think of their trenchant equations,
how they could never stay
in the landscape
that I held awhile
in my arms, then let go
like the water that falls from trees
after the rain has gone.
Copyright © 2013        Cliona O'Connell
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