Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.
Cormac McCarthy
The sea can do craziness, it can do smooth, it can lie down like silk breathing or toss havoc shoreward; it can give gifts or withhold all; it can rise, ebb, froth like an incoming frenzy of fountains, or it can sweet-talk entirely. As I can too, and so, no doubt, can you, and you.
Mary Oliver – a thousand mornings.
When I looked down from the bridge
Trout were flipping the sky
Into smithereens, the stones
Of the wall warmed me.
Wading green stems, lugs of leaf
That untangle and bruise
(Their tiny gushers of juice)
My toecaps sparkle now
Over the soft fontanel
Of Ireland. I should wear
Hide shoes, the hair next my skin,
For walking this ground:
Wasn’t there a spa-well,
Its coping grassy, pendent?
And then the spring issuing
Right across the tarmac.
I’m out to find that village,
Its low sills fragrant
With ladysmock and celandine,
Marshlights in the summer dark.
Seamus Heaney
Perhaps the hardest thing about losing a lover is to watch the year repeat its days.
It is as if I could dip my hand down into time and scoop up
blue and green lozenges of April heat a year ago in another country. I can feel that other day running underneath this one
like an old videotape
Anne Carson
THIRTYARDS 
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