April. A poem by Deirdre Ní Fhloinn

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,
they whispered:
– ná scartar sinn óna chéile.


Barrister, parent, carer, partner, recovering occasional poet. Say hello twitter.

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