6 May 2012
Some speak of love as though it were, 'A creature made of clay', I saw nothing but a dry dead leaf, At the dawning of the day.
Turmoil in the smallest blade, Of a grassy northern hill, Was it Inniskeen or self esteem, Or nature made you ill?
In Monaghan a poet died, The stars bow to his name, The tired "handsome captive", Broken down by pain.
Kavanagh • Opuss № I