Apostle of Seamus Heaney

How do I poem a verse for a god of letters,

stumble out crafted phrases fit for a grandfatherly face?

 

"Give up, sit down, keep your head below the parapet .

Leave the Heaney to treat with Zeus and fired-stone syllables."

 

The soul in  my fingers hesitates before putting pen on to the line,

before lighting flame from Seamus’ easter candle.

 

I remember what it was like before we were introduced,

the soil without any hyphens growing there.

 

A moan, a lament, a complaint, sans esperance,

but it’s well-faded now

 

like the whistle of corncrakes

in the thickening growth of fresh sedge.