i.m. Manchán Magan, 1970–2025
The bees downed tools, stopped making honey,
stayed in their hives, wings lowered, unhumming;
you no longer there to whisper to them,
to tell them of your movements and your plans,
to feed them stories rich as summer’s pollen.
You weren’t afraid to die – and didn’t,
just headed off into a different field,
like a wren hazing into a hawthorn ditch.
There’ll be loud talk now and plenty of it,
how your rainbows soared in a world of beige,
but that noise will fade like any other
while you stream through the bardo, marvelling;
coming back to visit now and then
on a warm breeze, buoyant, inquiring, vivid.
Cian Ferriter's first poetry collection, Brink, is published by Dedalus Press next month
The bees downed tools, stopped making honey,
stayed in their hives, wings lowered, unhumming;
you no longer there to whisper to them,
to tell them of your movements and your plans,
to feed them stories rich as summer’s pollen.
You weren’t afraid to die – and didn’t,
just headed off into a different field,
like a wren hazing into a hawthorn ditch.
There’ll be loud talk now and plenty of it,
how your rainbows soared in a world of beige,
but that noise will fade like any other
while you stream through the bardo, marvelling;
coming back to visit now and then
on a warm breeze, buoyant, inquiring, vivid.
Cian Ferriter's first poetry collection, Brink, is published by Dedalus Press next month
