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Patrick Kavanagh - March
Work rating: Medium

    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
    And 
    Poetry blossoms
    Excitingly
    As the first flower of truth.
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