Achill

    After one more night of erosion and nearer the grave，

    Then stand and gaze from the window at break of day

    As a shearwater skims the ridge¹ of an incoming wave；

    And I think of my son a dolphin in the Aegean，

    A sprite among sails knife-bright in a seasonal² wind，

    And wish he were here where currachs walk on the ocean

    To ease with his talk the solitude³ locked in my mind.

    I sit on a stone after lunch and consider the glow

    Of the sun through mist， a pearl bulb containèdly fierce；

    A rain-shower darkens the schist for a minute or so

    Then it drifts away and the sloe-black patches disperse⁴.

    Croagh Patrick towers like Naxos over the water

    And I think of my daughter at work on her difficult art

    And wish she were with me now between thrush and plover⁵，

    Wild thyme and sea-thrift， to lift the weight from my heart.

    The young sit smoking and laughing on the bridge at evening

    Like birds on a telephone pole or notes on a score.

    A tin whistle squeals⁶ in the parlour， once more it is raining，

    Turf-smoke inclines and a wind whines⁷ under the door；

    And I lie and imagine the lights going on in the harbor

    Of white-housed Náousa， your clear definition at night，

    And wish you were here to upstage my disconsolate⁸ labour

    As I glance through a few thin pages and switch off the light.