im chaonaí uaigneach nach mór go bhfeicim an lá

I lie and imagine a first light gleam in the bay

    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 ridge of an incoming wave;

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

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

And wish he were here where currachs walk on the ocean

   To ease with his talk the solitude 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 disperse.

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 plover,

   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 squeals in the parlour, once more it is raining,

   Turf-smoke inclines and a wind whines 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 disconsolate labour

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