Friday, 30 August 2013


i.m. Seamus Heaney 1939-2013

The windmills turn, but no one can push back the wind.
It comes from the far darkness, and without a sound
war drops confetti primers where the young will find
the haw beds stirring, laughing where great words resound.
The spires of the citadel are stark and bare,
no longer young, none striding forth with prospects there
to find the mazy streets lead to the fullsome world . . .
for darkness once again has been to darkness hurled.
A great one's passed, who validated much of youth . . .
to rattle in the darkness, finding signs of truth.
His clear voice boomed and worked to put us all at ease
with prospects of a keen, perpetual increase.
Now we shall hear his voice no more, except in signs
the sharp and shaping anvil has its grand designs.
poem by Ben Mazer, copyright 2013
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