This poem is taken from Stand 217, 16(1) March - April 2018.

Patricia Tyrrell Two Poems

The breeze that curls across the paddling pool
resembles a person speaking of water
just beyond earshot but with the penetration,
the bared simplicity, of mime. This means
the child has left the pool. Absence is all.

The air understands itself with careful laws
which take account of a non-presence.  Only
the human brain – that rough grey overcoat
crammed into a birdcage of bone –
fidgets and frets, finds inconsistency.

The air round a gone presence bears the absoluteness
of two violins twining or the stop of a heart.
Which is real, density or my neurons’ trembling -
or is there no conflict? Science has now discovered
that Pluto, the ‘dead’ planet, is bubbling.
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