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
Seamus Heaney
1939-2013
velvetmedia 
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….
LikeLike
That’s beautiful
LikeLike