(written on the occasion of new abortion laws being introduced in Northern Ireland)
Mid-autumn clear, the October morning
colours cold with summer tones, the trees are
crimson veterans who have watched this all
beauty’s burn, the rage of something final,
the headlong rush into the shortened days,
our steady forgetting of winters past.
Today, the path into the schoolyard was
strewn with forgotten craft, discarded art
dropped from a child’s bag or a mother’s hand,
a skiff of sparkle star confetti, and
red Christmas evergreens, materials for
a scene that had never been, and now,
with the storm’s strength, will never be again.