It is dark;
the next time we see the light
it will be nearly Paddy’s Day.
The cave of winter
is solid and without cracks;
the dark has a physical substance
that you can almost hold;
I feel sure that I could go outside
with a bottle and put some in,
ready to take to a far off place
that needs a little darkness,
somewhere baking under
The dark is a blanket that covers,
it is a barrier that keeps stuff out,
a lid that closes us in.
Light is the thing that exists -
in waves and particles and rays and shafts -
and darkness is just light’s absence,
deep in the cavern that is the Irish winter,
the dark is the only thing that really is.
Light is the aberration and its opposite
is the natural order of things.
The dark does not care about us;
it is vast, like the ocean,
and just as full of contempt for
all of our mess and hassle and
lack of light. The dark is a
creature that does not eat and does
not breathe, but which occupies space like
a malevolent gas. The dark has
no tentacles, but it feels like it does.
The dark covers and hides
and blankets the world in negative space,
like anti-matter, a creeping vacuum.
The dark is a negation,
an absence, a nothingness that
sucks the vibrant hope from the world.
The dark does not hate us;
it is worse, it does not care if we exist.
Our wounds and cravings
and loss do not matter to
its fixed, merciless expanse.
I hang on, and wait
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