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  There's a wind blowing
  Cold through the corridors,
  A ghost-wind,
  The flapping of defeated wings,
  A hell-fantasy
  From meadows damned
  To eternal April

  And listening, listening
  To the wind
  I hear
  The throat-rattle of dying men,
  From whose ears oozes
  Foamy blood,
  Throttled in a brothel.

  I see brightly
  In the wind vacancies
  Saint Thomas Aquinas
  Poetry blossoms
  As the first flower of truth.

© Patrick Kavanagh