Andrew Quin Poems

This moment holds a space;
Not sketched in arc by the scratching clock-face hand
Of sullen metronomic ticks to cut forever by degree,
Nor weighted in the mass of a falling grain of sand;
...

Her Eyes are like the drops of dew
That Swollen lie upon the leaf;
And like my love will soon renew
The tender roots that run beneath.
...

They loved, as loudly as the dead have slept
Yet unafraid, not knowing fear;
Becoming of a calm unknown to those who wept
And loveless stand still weeping by the graves
...

Her face is held lightly in the
Cupped hands of a softly shining moon,

Draping thin blue sickle-shapes
Of veil to hang about her nose and cheek.
...