March - Poem by Patrick Kavanagh
There's a wind blowing
Cold through the corridors,
The flapping of defeated wings,
From meadows damned
To eternal April
And listening, listening
To the wind
The throat-rattle of dying men,
From whose ears oozes
Throttled in a brothel.
I see brightly
In the wind vacancies
Saint Thomas Aquinas
As the first flower of truth.
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