Posted by: Peadar Ban | May 4, 2016

A Poem Written After Writing A Letter


It was no black raven hovering there
Whose little wings beat the air,
Whose little beak opened and shut
As if to speak important words.

His dark black cap, his milk white breast,
His golden flanks; of all the rest
His steady eye holding me
‘Til I saw what he’d have me see.

Time passes… strangely it does not.
I am all that I have ever been and what
I will ever be folded in this seed of me;
Green, great, strong limbed as the tree

And fallen to the ground and rotted, dead.
For all that though I will live through that “end”
To rise, ascend in final irony.
Enfolded now in plainest mystery.

For Love lives Who gives life to me. Creation
Like a bird flies toward adoration.


%d bloggers like this: