III.

The ruined maid complains in Irish,
Ocean has scattered her dream of fleets,
The Spanish prince has spilled his gold

And failed her.

Iambic drums
Of English beat the woods where her poets
Sink like Onan. Rush-light, mushroom-flesh,

She fades from their somnolent clasp
Into ringlet-breath and dew,
The ground possessed and repossessed.

 ocean’s love to ireland  – seamus heaney

wait kit tell me about meeting seamus heaney

Oh my god help me I thought it was a one on one dinner but it’s a party of 13 most people are in their 30s and I’m in CHISWICK it’s gonna take 2 hours to get home OOOOOH MY GOD