I’ve been seeing January migrations of geese in the powder
blue sky above Dublin;
those ever-shifting arrows sign-posting exotic, faraway
countries are in my thoughts
when a full-stop moves from the text into the blank margin
of the page I’m reading.
I watch it moving up the page, wondering how much purpose a
dot-sized creature can have?
At the top it turns right, making for the gorge between the
two pages;
its slow progress suggesting rough terrain: clints and
grykes, a burren’s uneven pavements.
A newscaster’s voice cuts into the moment ̶ 95 people dead on
a street in Kabul ̶
I lose sight of the full stop;
how high up, I wonder, must one be for our atrocities to be so small
that they appear insignificant.
