Where the potato-gatherers like mechanised scare-crows move Along the side-fall of the hill – Maguire and his men. If we watch them an hour is there anything we can prove Of life as it is broken-backed over the Book
Of Death? Here crows gabble over worms and frogs And the gulls like old newspapers are blown clear of the hedges, luckily. Is there some light of imagination in these wet clods? Or why do we stand here shivering?
Which of these men [10]
Loved the light and the queen Too long virgin? Yesterday was summer. Who was it promised marriage to himself Before apples were hung from the ceilings for Hallowe’en? We will wait and watch the tragedy to the last curtain, Till the last soul passively like a bag of wet clay
Rolls down the side of the hill, diverted by the angles Where the plough missed or a spade stands, straitening the way. A dog lying on a torn jacket under a heeled-up cart, A horse nosing along the posied headland, trailing A rusty plough. Three heads hanging between wide-apart
Legs. October playing a symphony on a slack wire paling. Flameless. The drills slipped by and the days slipped by And he trembled his head away and ran free from the world’s halter,
And thought himself wiser than any man in the townland When he laughed over pints of porter Of how he came free from every net spread In the gaps of experience. He shook a knowing head And pretended to his soul
Where men are spanging across wide furrows, Lost in the passion that never needs a wife – The pricks that pricked were the pointed pins of harrows. Children scream so loud that the crows could bring
The seed of an acre away with crow-rude jeers. And hallooed the birds away that were the birds of the years. Turn over the weedy clods and tease out the tangled skeins. What is he looking for there?
He thinks it is a potato, but we know better