There is a terrifying hush, at the brook
Where nesting birds once cried,
And an empty cradle
I used to rock,
My hand at once tending its base
And the top most planks, which I pressed,
Together with another, as we watched,
The amplification of time, dance months
On a child’s face, beside a partition wall,
Where previously none was needed.
The nesting pair of crows we used to feed,
Died last year, and their bodies made sweet food
For the worms beneath the thorn bushes
We tend to each other, still,
Now that our ministry has ended,
Yet there is little warmth left,
And we are too old to gather fresh wood.
Oisín Breen is a 36 year-old poet, part-time doctoral candidate in narratological complexity, and financial journalist. Dublin born Breen’s critically aclaimed debut collection, Flowers, all sorts in blossom, figs, berries, and fruits, forgotten was released Mar. 2020 by Edinburgh’s Hybrid Press. Primarily a proponent of long-form style-orientated poetry infused with the philosophical, Breen has been, or is in line to be, published in 24 journals, including the Blue Nib, Books Ireland, the Seattle Star, Modern Literature, La Piccioletta Barca, the Bosphorus Review of Books, North Dakota Quarterly, In Parenthesis, and Dreich magazine.