It’s the way the dark between stars is filled with light
that may never reach us.
It’s the way our local Running Man is accompanied
by his imaginary friend who keeps up a lively conversation.
It’s the way my one-year-old grandson looks at me sometimes,
as if he knows more than he will ever remember.
It’s the way a vivid dream can take me over, so that on waking
I must find a quiet place to stay within its landscape.
It’s the way a poem will sometimes write itself, leave me
wondering where it came from.
It’s the way, before rain, there’s a moment of silence
that shushes the world for the coming downpour.
It’s the way, after rain, my sense of smell is enhanced, and I get
to know the earth, cement, grass, in a more intimate manner.
It’s the way walking in a wood will heal, will slow
the rush of the body to its end.
It’s the way giraffes are silent creatures until left to the night,
when they will hum secretly to each other.
Mostly, it’s the way I don’t know what I’m missing,
but still am missing it.
Frank Dullaghan is an Irish poet living in the UK. His most recent collection is In the Coming of Winter, published by Cinnamon Press 2021. His work is widely published in journals, including in Cyphers, London Magazine, Poetry Wales, and Rattle.
Note: In 2015 a report was issued by a team at the University of Vienna who had gathered 947 hours over 8 years of giraffes humming at 3 European zoos. Previously, giraffe caretakes believed they were silent creatures
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