Friday, August 30, 2013

seamus heaney

A rowan like a lipsticked girl.
Between the by-road and the main road
Alder trees at a wet and dripping distance
Stand off among the rushes.
There are the mud-flowers of dialect
And the immortelles of perfect pitch
And that moment when the bird sings very close
To the music of what happens.

via 


Short post written in sadness - RIP Seamus Heaney ow.ly/opwBe



and from Mary Ann:
http://maryannreilly.blogspot.com/2013/08/large-loss-seamus-heaney.html


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