A poem by 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.

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'Song' by Seamus Heaney

comments powered by Disqus

Home | Search | About this website | Contact | Privacy Policy