In the halcyon hours of winter solstice,
you loosened your grip
for the slip towards death.
You had no mate to hoist you on his back
and fly over the flat-calm sea,
mourning you with his cries.
But in your last storm, a thaisce, never fear,
our sorrow saw you safely
into the blue, in a blaze of red.
i.m. of Nessa O'Connor
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