"And here is love like a tinsmith's scoop sunk past its glean in the meal-bin. — "Sunlight - Seamus Heaney

Believe that a further shore is reachable from here.

Here is the great paradox of poetry and of the imaginative arts in general. Faced with the brutality of the historical onslaught, they are practically useless. Yet they verify our singularity, they strike out the ore of self which lies at the base of every individuated life. In one sense the efficacy of poetry is nil – no lyric has ever stopped a tank. In another sense it is unlimited. It is like the writing in the sand in the face of which accusers and accused are left speechless and renewed.

Afterwards a boy-child was born to Shield,
a cub in the yard, a comfort sent
by God...