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It is December in Wicklow Alders dripping b

It is December in Wicklow
Alders dripping birches
Inheriting the last light
The ash tree cold to look at.

A comet that was lost
Should be visible at sunset
Those million tons of light
Like a glimmer of haws and rose hips

And I sometimes see a falling star.
If I could come on meteorite!
Instead I walk through damp leaves
Husks the spent flukes of autumn

Imagining a hero
On some muddy compound
His gift like a slingstone
Whirled for the desperate.

How did I end up like this?
I often think of my friends""
Beautiful prismatic counselling
And the anvil brains of some who hate me

As I sit weighing and weighing
My responsible tristia.
For what? For the ear? For the people?
For what is said behind backs?

Rain comes down through the alders
Its low conductive voices
Mutter about let downs and erosions
And yet each drop recalls

The diamond absolutes.
I am neither internee nor informer
An inner emigre grown long haired
And thoughtful a wood kerne

Escaped from the massacre
Taking protective colouring
From bole and bark feeling
Every wind that blows

Who blowing up these sparks
For their meagre heat have missed
The once in a lifetime portent
The comet""s pulsing rose.

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by:- admin posted in:- seamus heaney

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