Annaghmakerrig

Wind howl tranquillity
blowing
the sheer beauty
of Brendan Cleary's
poems of love
and death.

How he so deftly dances
between the two.
Then there he is in the kitchen
talking lost love and new bets
over fresh baked scones.

And I
I sit here alone.
Without a horse to ride.
Or a woman
to back.