Poetry Day Ireland

After Loss

In dreams I wrestled
an angel
on an amber shore.

His wings were sandstorm.
His voice
salt in the wound.

He pressed me down
till the tide itself
begged mercy,

then raised me again,
marked,
not mended.

I woke
to stone, nettle,
rain through the roof.

Five years now
lifting walls,
planting rowan, oak, birch

against the wind.

Their roots
take hold slowly
in the clay.

Grief remains,
gentler now,
its hands full of soil.