Oh! lovely Brigantia, where have you been?

23 April 2022

With only a gentle stroke,

the personal becomes the universal;

a threadbare zoetrope in a child’s room,

spinning still

even when the children are grown and gone,

pilgrimaged to the womb

or to the ash or the smoke.

And when we can again see

through the darkly lighted night

or the forest, with tall brilliant trees,

or into the half lighted sky, with little blots of bright Hope

being birthed and dying in each passing moment;

And when we can again hear

over the sound of bombs and screams

or can notice the whispered pleas of a muse

long hidden behind a filmy screen;

And when we can again find

the words which allude us so,

circled in passing glances

or planned advances;

Then,

then

a new era, with the same dedicated precision, will dawn.

Oh! lovely Brigit, most Beautiful of them all,

Where did you go these many long years?

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