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Oct 2010
My crunching across this frozen field
wakes sleeping sheep, due to lamb.
The nearby turlough ripples brush across
Moon’s fragmented image,
a lone swan pirouettes–
half a Claddagh Ring.

I welcome the fog
though it snuffs out the moon.
It is still so bright.
No sign of any lamb.

Days later I walk the same field
with a squelch. Incessant rain
has drowned the moon.
Still no lamb.
My watch flashes:
midnight.
Written by
Miceal Kearney
1.6k
 
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