There is peace in the close-at-hand,
In snowmelt running clear in the ditch,
In the music of wind under the eaves,
In a bird's nest filled with leaves,
In wires curved like a freehand for miles
Sagging under a burden of doves,
For a grief which i hardly ever speak,
A white bird inside me as i sleep.
—with an image based in a Heaney poem
and shaped by the here-and-now.
