The Silence of Moher
by John Walsh
Clouds settle close, shy of connecting,
no abruptness in the air. A fading mellow
before the grey moves in, haunting itself for the want
of things past, things lost, things better–not.
The drawn–out evening musters itself.
January hunkers in its corner, all banter gone,
all those illusions left untended.
There is certainty in the things expected of us
to say, to touch, to etch in circles, let drop.
There is no end to it, even when the grey merges,
negates the argument with indivisible proof.
Even when Moher recedes into its solid web —
not enough has been said, all the clues forthcoming
have been left unspun.