Last night I wrote of poetry and wine;
today I read of it:
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Oh Seamus Heaney, the Ireland in my heart is breaking,
the world of my soul is all apart.
If it is dark wine in your ink well, won’t you feather one more line?
No, you won’t, because your bog song has gone quiet,
and your hammered curve of bay has become holy.
The aftermath of a mouthful of wine
Was like inhaling you off a cold pillow.
Was like reading a poem
(poem excerpts above from “Blackberry Picking” and “The Skunk” by Seamus Heaney)