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.