those roots grab you back

coffin laden on barley

lifted on the wind,

your voice  i heard once

as cars exploded on the streets

and police batons fell,

i grew listening to you

embracing my heritage

not strangers to a landscape,

scattered  with grass seed

upon heavy peat bogs,

alone with your pages

paper yellowing in the sun

i got to know what

rhythm made the music inside

and caught magical light,

you where a viking

a warrior of words

forged by the great anvil,

i still read you

as many do

your place is deeper

than sinew and bone

you are a molecule

of a fresh soul

coming to a brighter

day

poet, ireland, seamus heany, nobel prize

Seamus Heaney
1939-2013

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Comments
  1. simonhlilly says:

    They do not die, these poets, they are absorbed, slowly by the year, feeding the tongue’s root, weighing the worth of hearts, swinging from page to page, a rustle of birdsong in the morning, a glimmer of twilit truth, always gold, not tarnished, never fading….

  2. Fereh says:

    That’s beautiful

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