… It looks easy – I know – screening

Watching and tracing those wily

Footsteps, so calculatingly

Crucial, placed to strategic

Advantage, and when you plant yours

– into those imprints – they’ve already

Disappeared into melted snow

As mist and snow descends, making

Visibility almost a

Thing of our recent past and his

Star shines bright into forever


… what he saw:

Poetry in surrealist

Intimations brought to life by

Nature’s flagrant intervention

Simple things passed aside each day

Revoked in time – as it flies away

To the West, in Shelley’s broken

Retreat and bound to tradition

Returned early morning’s far east

Seamus knew full well, these things are

Way ahead of percolated

Coffee, much more relaxing than

Afternoon tea, they; are seams in

Otherwise disrupted lives, burnt

Black, recorded in annals of

Retributive syntax – not what

Is happening – too boring, he said

But of those idiosyncrasies

And those canny writers, now dead

Nb. C. Seamus Heaney: ‘New and selected Poems 1988 – 2013 … The Fosterling pg. 25.’