Poems and Poetry

Wood | A Poem by Marie MacSweeney

And when we gather up the dead wood,
before its dust is damped down
or swept away,

before our log pile is stacked under eaves,
before fires spark in wintry grates,

flame, falter
in the night,

before all this I notice
the many shapes the blades

have scored on each cut branch
alongside those coiled rings

curling round that central cipher
from which all immensities
are measured.

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