The blackbird that lives in the graveyard
sits on the Wall at the fade of the winter day.
He has fed off the worms that have fed off the clay
of the Protestant dead.

And yet he is subtle,
subtle and bright
as the love that might explain him
yet may not be explained.

As for the rest, there is almost nothing to add,
not even This is how it was,
because all we can ever say
is This is how it looked to me –

In the blackbird’s looped entrails
everything is resolved.