2014 - Vol. 73
A selection of poems
from The snipe in winter, by Sean O'Neill
poem by Sean O'Neill
The peat bogs of Cavan, holding secrets
that for a thousand years preserved the skin
of the dead, waited for us to begin
our river walk, so dense with the spirits
of other anglers and their teeming catch.
I cast deep in a pit under some stone
where I’d seen a curved whorl like a hipbone
and the spray told me the fly was a match.
With my old tactic I pulled to the bank
where, at the last netbound heave, the line snapped
and the fish frisked away to thrive and live.
How many times we try but draw a blank,
finding we cannot alter or adapt
to win the prize that only God can give.
selection of poems from The snipe in winter, by Sean O'Neill
||This poem is from The
snipe in winter, a new collection of poems by Sean O’Neill. Available
Book available at Amazon.
O'Neill is originally from Glasgow, Scotland, and currently lives in St.
Paul, Minnesota, USA. He has published three books of poems and several
in past issues of Living Bulwark