SEAMUS HEANEY
even his hair and clothes
were poetic-
the strands and fibres
blowing and smelling
phrasing words
digging up roots
of beauty and violence
from umbilical bog
hosting the bones
of victims buried
clutching peaceful seeds
to throw on troubled fields.
that liquid lilting voice-
like mist and sunlight
on soil and mud
turning tales to truths
speaks like celtic circles
on sacred stones-
in estranged language
returning us to landscape.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 30th August 2013. All Rights Reserved.
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