that spot where the swallow rose and fell slowly

My noon shadow folds absence into my body

I assume I was seen in the way a postcard is seen

it is easier to trust God with worlds than with sons

Kavanagh’s poem looks to Advent for a sort of poetic and spiritual rebirth, a chance to reacquaint ourselves with the “newness that was in every stale thing.”

I heard song, whilst he suffered his trials