A poem by Gerard Fanning
Matt Kiernan
He tries to explain How a gift emerges Singing from the shadows,
How holding the reamer like a baton Conducts receding melodies,
And how rhythm runs Like a finger through stencil in his brain.
The radio light trembles, And the battery bleeds in its cage, So when at last he plays
The air is as true As the quiet inflection of easter snow Settling in its drifts of blue.
Gerard Fanning (1952-2017)











