Having made mincemeat of his shoulder, he convalesces,
not knowing, but – really – knowing that some padre or other
will sooner rather than later record he was blown to pieces
stopping in out of the rain for a cuppa

with his unit . . . In Ypres. A different unit
to the one he just quit in the Balkans, or the upset assembly
around him in Lily Lane, in the schoolroom they've had to refit
as a ward, so national was the level of casualty.

This is in the run-up to Easter in 1916.
Outside he can be seen observing the new daffodils
bending under the northwest wind. It's been
and gone. The not much that lies ahead of him, and helpless symbols.

John McAuliffe's poetry collections include Of All Places and The Way In (Gallery Press). He is the chief poetry reviewer for The Irish Times