for the Day
1919: the birthday of the Irish piper Seamus Ennis.
Its the wind that plays
the bent grass, the blown reed,
through the hollow trailing legs
of a wading bird,
and eyes fire tracing
the known shape
of a hillocky mountain,
a stream of whittling water.
Grass battered to fire
by the wastrel wind,
water like blown glass
and the true dark note of
the black soil
that drowns all it buries,
onward, ominous hum
in the entrails of the universe,
and the nasal noise that the stars make,
sounding like wide, cold silence.
Bent towards the fire, singing
and playing onward towards the embers,
and getting up and dying again
along a thin wind playing
in the long brown grass and reeds.
Lay Reader: an archive of the poetic calendar