The Gold of Seamus Heaney

Seamus died
And he was the finest wordsmith
Because he was so honest
And perfectly educated by the
Breathe of peat and heather
And wild Atlantic winds
He had do other purpose than
To discover, to fabricate to engineer
The countless joys of how words can combine
To stop you in your tracks
And trigger pleasure of an unknown
Kind. And kind he was too
In his glory mixing and matching
The language he was born within
Careful concoctions of literary perfection
To be judged by any open mind who understood
The times, the timbre the tempo
And the depth of his airy artful skills
His choice of words, his subjects his reasoning
All took us up there with him
Floating, high above the mundane
And back again
To where the children play
And the cattle groan
Heavy with milk
To that place where simple coalmen
Once were men.
T’was his sod
His hame
He our gold.

(c) Alexander John Pithie

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