‘The Bonecastle Searches’ by Damian Smyth

What they look for when they do go looking
Among the perfect dunes, in the remote scrubland,
Is not an artefact or leavings or even a thing
As such, an evidence, but what is actually missing
From the earth itself as much as from home,
Towards which a shoe with the laces intact,
A ring still yellow in the whins, the bifocals
Which attracted the gaze of the sun in the first place
And drew such attention, are simply the signs
Of what is no longer there – a kind of absence
Eliciting from the heart an allegiance more compelling
Than discoveries, remains, recoverables, things;
Nothingness making its presence felt everywhere.
Then I remember my grandfather’s hip joint
The gravedigger turned up when he went in again
To make room for my brother: that raw baguette
As grey and unmanageable as the heel of a loaf
Placed in this hand as if it somehow were mine,
A belonging or a gift that couldn’t be refused,
And at once it was clear what goes on down there
In the caves of the planet – its closing over on us
To begin the strange work of claiming its own,
Piecemeal, no detail however small neglected,
With a care anonymous, universal and detached,
Almost, one might say, with love equal to anything.

From issue #5: autumn/winter 2017

About the Author
Damian Smyth’s six collections are Downpatrick Races (2000), The Down Recorder (2004), Lamentations (2010), Market Street (2010), Mesopotamia (2014) and English Street (2018). He is Head of Literature & Drama at the Arts Council of Northern Ireland.