sad disbeliever without feeling
beside a window
distorted by rain from
the second named storm of August
I watch three pure-white terns
brighter than
elegant
the delicate
grey of slender wings
that beat in the hover
rise in the gusts
then dive to tickle
the brown-foamed
storm-churned lough
no fish —
too deep for terns
safe too from roosting gannets
who know their limits in the
murky depth
still through wind and rain and foam
they skim and soar and hover
dive and rise
again and again
bringing life and beauty to the elements
I would ride the storm with them stealing
just a second of belonging as they do
but having arms instead of wings
I lift my pen
and thank them for the healing
