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Éire's Blue Musician
(To Seán Lucy)
A heron sails
Past the stars that rule
The cool damp sky.
Your words stoke souls;
The compressed heart.
The stone blue holy woman
Keens the passing of his art;
Laments fate's Unfinished Sequence.
Phantom deer leap Keimaneigh,
Storm the mystery of loss.
The riddleman in the Coolea reeds.
His blue notes converse with the frost
In the dark spots
You love and hate
To frequent.
Patrick Aidan English
Slow Air
Through your tin whistle
in my hand
the wind played
a slow air.
When darkness fell
over the headland
a bird hovered,
its eye trained on the cottage.
In the window, yellow light,
plain deal table,
your empty chair,
then out it wheeled, to sea.
One day
they will fashion a whistle
from its bones.
Jim Daly
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