27 MARCH 1993, Page 35

Foreground

Some I admire assert verse fails when its theme is private hurt or love — for what, then, of public affairs? My daughter sleeps upstairs.

Winter waits at the pane.

I go through her arrival once again, five-months-old eyes, widened, adopting us, telling us not to fuss.

But we did while the world she'd strayed into was about to be hurled towards the latest crisis, the next war to drum fists on our door . . .

The midday quiet breaks.

I watch her as she calls my name and shakes the cot, then lift her up and out, and hold her wrapped against the cold, and going downstairs, pause when she points to a bird settling its claws on a leafless branch that the vast, blank sky foregrounds temporarily.

Michael O'Neill