Page 25 of Under the Dark Moon

There is empty, there is full;

There is God, the busy question

In denial of doubt.

There is mindlessness and mind,

There is deathlessness, and death,

There is waking, there is sleeping,

There is false, there is true,

There is going, there is coming,

But upon the stroke of midnight

Wherever we may be,

There am I, there are you.

She sat, staring through the glass as afternoon sunlight filtered through the branches of a tree outside her window. Seamus was telling her they each existed because the other did. At least, she thought that was what he meant. Irish poets could be esoteric, her father had told her, and Seamus was both Irish, and a poet of sorts. But his gift was precious; something of his, treasured since he was fourteen, carried with him in his duffle bag, and now gifted to her.

Meg pressed the paper to her breast and closed her eyes. ‘I love you, Seamus. Wherever you are, I am with you, my love.’

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