Heaney

Heaney

Born of the year 39
A rural Ireland desolate north
The world being ravaged by war
A farm boy born aptitude in literature
Destined for hard labour hand&foot grasped to a spade as his father before him
Purpose is the key to life, without it life has no Meaning. Destiny, on the other hand, is what you are Ordained to be in life, “between my finger and my Thumb the squat pen rests, il dig with it”




From “squelch and slap of soggy peat”
To St. Columbs collage via Queens halls
Sowing the seeds to conquer words

Quotes recited, marked with infinity,
wearing white hair as a crown of glory
A righteous man stricken with loss
A brother laid to rest in a “four foot box”
To “rushes and mist round Lough beg bog”
Da Vinci had his brush Heaney had his thoughts


As we mourned the loss of a beautiful mind
We cherish the brilliance left behind

                      The phoenix poet

A bird symbolising immortality, resurrection and life after death, his literature lives on Inspiring those “who dare to walk on air”
From one poet to another I bid you farewell
At walls of the bawn where your cast in bronze