my morning poem,,,

Facts of Life, Ballymoney

I would like to let things be:

the rain comes down on the roof,

the small birds come to the feeder,

the waves come slowly up the strand.

Three sounds to measure

my hour here at the window:

the slow swish of the sea,

the squeak of hungry birds,

the quick ticking of rain.

Then of course there are the trees —

bare for the most part.

The grass wide open to the rain,

clouds accumulating over the sea,

the water rising and falling and rising,

herring-gulls bobbing on the water.

They are killing cuttlefish out there,

one at a time without fuss.

With a brisk little shake of the head

they rinse their lethal beaks.

Rain-swollen, the small stream

twists between slippery rocks.

That’s all there’s to it, spilling

its own sound onto the sand.

In one breath, one wink, all this

melts to an element in my blood.

And still it’s possible to go on

simply living

as if nothing had happened.

Nothing has happened:

rain inching down the window,

me looking out at the rain.

eamon grennan, 1983