By Ruairí de Barry
The words were sent out of the window and into the world,
Spiralling nouns danced on the breeze and prose rose on light airs,
Gusting gales could not the verbs shake loose from bonds of rhyme,
The poets thoughts set loose upon the wind and free.
Far away they flew, soaring through the sky despite their worthy weight,
Poems full of time telling of many stories and of many lives.
Of days stood in sand with rifle in hand,
Of life observed through younger eyes in days gone by.
That window through which the words rushed was lit bright,
A becon as the gathering dark draws in and the winds rise,
That window and those wonderful words will be a light driving back the dark,
Words tell their stories arc, from cradle to grave, the writers epitaph they mark.
The words travels swift and fast through glass fibre electronic blast,
But they often slow and sink, hold fast, on paper smooth and minds rough,
To hold against the buffeting these words must be tough,
The words have finally come to rest, in this here book upon my resting chest.