i.m. Manchán Magan, 1970–2025

The bees downed tools, stopped making honey,
stayed in their hives, wings lowered, unhumming;
you no longer there to whisper to them,
to tell them of your movements and your plans,
to feed them stories rich as summer’s pollen.
You weren’t afraid to die – and didn’t,
just headed off into a different field,
like a wren hazing into a hawthorn ditch.
There’ll be loud talk now and plenty of it,
how your rainbows soared in a world of beige,
but that noise will fade like any other
while you stream through the bardo, marvelling;
coming back to visit now and then
on a warm breeze, buoyant, inquiring, vivid.

Cian Ferriter's first poetry collection, Brink, is published by Dedalus Press next month