A flying code in a cell made
the world turn sideways
and we all began to fall.
I reached for the poets. Eliot, Heaney, Yeats.
Their words became trees,
each a life-saver that could be grasped, gripped, held
when we could not hold each other.
Each poem a forest
in which to walk,
when walking was a privilege.
When we were pulled up by our roots-
the words reached out, and held us fast.
Stretched into soil and soul and
handed down to us over years,
– ná scartar sinn óna chéile.
Barrister, parent, carer, partner, recovering occasional poet. Say hello twitter.