Tuesday, 18 March 2014


Sometimes life is hard. In an instant, our hopes and dreams can go up in smoke and we are left wondering what is left.

In those times, the right words can speak to a battered soul. Like this poem, by Derek Mahon.

How should I not be glad to contemplate
the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window
and a high tide reflected on the ceiling?
There will be dying, there will be dying,
but there is no need to go into that.
The poems flow from the hand unbidden
and the hidden source is the watchful heart.
The sun rises in spite of everything
and the far cities are beautiful and bright.
I lie here in a riot of sunlight
watching the day break and the clouds flying.
Everything is going to be all right.