|Birds Lifting (M.A. Reilly, 2011)|
A rowan like a lipsticked girlBetween the by-road and the main roadAlder trees at a wet and dripping distanceStand off among the rushes.
There are the mud-flowers of dialectAnd the immortelles of perfect pitchAnd that moment when the bird sings very closeTo the music of what happens.
-Seamus Heaney, 1979
|Man Watching (M.A. Reilly, 2011)|
A DRINK OF WATER
She came every morning to draw water
Like an old bat staggering up the field:
The pump's whooping cough, the bucket's clatter
And slow dimineundo as it filled,
Announced her. I recall
Her grey apron, the pocked white enamel
Of the brimming bucket, and the treble
Creak of her voice like the pump's handle.
Nights when a full moon lifted past her gable
It fell back through her window and would lie
Into the water set out on the table.
Where I have dipped to drink again, to be
Faithful to the admonishment on her cup,
"Remember the Giver," fading off the lip.
-- Seamus Heaney
|Fog Lifting (M.A. Reilly, 2011)|