Homecoming (for Terry)
The speed of lightning
or the speed of sound,
or something entirely other
set against the heavens,
your face pressed hard down
in that black box
so that you do not see dawn
caress the edges of Ireland,
the shadow our plane’s wings
write on Shannon waters,
those low swollen hills
encircling Dublin.
If the sea around Skellig
does not rejoice as you slip
into its depths I will argue
with ocean forever.
Bright brain, smiling
eyes, sad face, frowning
heart, body pummelled
by illness
before the fire
offered you up,
without reserve,
to the planet.