Light, Refracted through this matrix of fractured stops of clocks – That brazen rumination of spent hours – Years in hock to antecedence – It tills in distinct measures – A tilt from North to South and again, again in centripetal spin – It is that harvested intensity spilled out also into the wholeness of silence.
And in its breach it cleaves life and death apart, So that its differing attentions fill a gap in parenthesis.
And these waves of light through time trigger mind in the heart, And rooted, there abide the twin apotheoses: The requiem and hymn – shivers in the meristem –
And sliced, its moon-shaped leaves cling to the dome – An issuance of thorns and spines, tendrils, And starlight gripping greens.
It is thus that form is integral to ash, And just like its prerequisite states; Such form yields a cellular tabernacle of growing pains, One of halted spears, diverted from a pinioning of wood.
Oisín Breen is a Dublin-born writer who has spent much of the last decade living in Edinburgh. In recent months, he has replaced his morning orange juice with grapefruit. He also staunchly rejects the idea that everything is art.