Is den chré sinn, chun ithreach a fhillimid.

Suíonn corp agus céadfaí le leacht, snámhann ar uisce.

Titeann an t-úll i gcónaí faoi mheáchan an aeir, faoi tharraingt na cruinne.

Dúil againn san eitilt ariamh, sciatháin ainglí

A thugann tearmann don leanbh, don easlán,

Agus freagra ar ghuí.

Céad bliain anois ag an eitilt, ag innealtóireacht an aeir

Agus is mór faoi seo ár nduais:   toitíní á reic mórdhíola ar deich míle méadar

Mionchleití beaga cuimire ag bun móreití chun caitheamh breosla a ghearradh,

Teicheadh ón gheimhreadh chuig Gran Canaria, sine ar chuar an Atlantaigh faoi mhuislín scamaill,

Feabhas anmhór ar delivery systems agus ar drones.

Suíonn Concorde ar thalamh CDG T1, éadan álainn le Meiriceá,

Gob in airde, eireaball in ísle, a sciatháin

Ghrástúla ina gcúirtéis rinceora, nó mar éan suirí,

Suíonn feistithe ar chosa buana nach féidir a aistarraingt.

Tá an eitilt sa mhiotal, crut na heitilte sa dearadh

Ach níor fhreagair sí don tsaol seo Ryanair.

Dakota agus coisithe a bhuaigh an cogadh mór.

Flight


Clay we are and unto clay return.

Flesh and emotion, water-based

Swim.   Apples fall under the weight of air, the world’s attraction.

We sought always to fly, saw angel wings

Give refuge to a child, to the dying, give answer

To hopeless prayer.

Flight has gone on now a century, heavy engineering

And we have gained much.   At ten thousand metres

Cigarettes are wholesale, winglets grace the wings

To increase lift;  we flee the winter to Gran Canaria, see

The nipple on the north Atlantic’s breast erect in cloudy muslin.

We are skilled now at delivery systems, at drones.

Concorde at Paris is grounded at CDG T1, face out to America,

Beak up, tail down, wings spread graceful in dancer’s curtsey,

In bird’s courtship, but bolted to the runway,

Never to fly again.   The flight is in the metal, in design,

But her payload wasn’t fit for Ryanair.   The last world war

Was won by Dakota, by tanktracks, by infantry.

Feileacán


Cuma éiginnte san eitilt dó ar fheileacán daite

An luathshamhraidh;  ó áit go háit go hanamúil a thriall,

Seal gnóthach tapa, seal eile síothmhar sámh, ag diúl,

Ag crú na gréine, i mbun a chodach nó ag déanamh scíthe.

Meallann piotail gheala é, srotha milse aeir, agus gearrann

Sé uileann géar, camadh tobann

Chun freastal ar a dhúil, freagairt ar a dhíth.

Amharc péire díobh ag damhsa, saor ó thalamh,

Níl aon rud géar faoin suirí – grástúlacht is cleasa lúith, bratach

An ghrá ar foluain fiáin saor ach ceangailte le cuaille láidir.

Feithid bheag, an cuaille á tabhairt slán ar aghaidh.   Caitheann

Imeall an aeir eití na bumbóige, sciatháin an fheileacáin

Gur míéifeachtach, mábach, sraoilleach, bocht,

Fulangach le talamh ag fanacht ciúin le fiacail, le gob.

Butterfly


The multicoloured butterfly seems uncertain

As she flies from place to place in early summer,

At times fast, busy, at other times at rest, at suck

On milky sunlight.   She swings to bright petals, to sweet

Aircurrents, tight cornering

To satisfy her appetite, answer to her need.

Watch two dance together, free of the land

And there’s nothing sharp about that courtship:

Graceful athletics, a flag flies free

And wild while tethered to a mast, a small insect

Has its strength in holding pole.   But air’s

Cutting edge wears down the flag,

The wing of heavy bee, of butterfly.

Its own element makes it frayed, ragged, dysfunctional

A poor thing, passive, patient on the ground,

Waiting there for beak, for tooth, for end.

Na Preátaí Dubha


An dubh ar na preátaí, meath thobann,

Gach gas lofa marbh, ag luascadh le gaoith nó briste ina luí.

Ní heol cén dóigh ar an tiúbar gheal faoin chré

Leis an dubhchan, ach ní habhlann bheatha é.

Ba é scread na Bealtaine de dhoineann fhuar antráthach,

Ba é an bolcán sin san Íoslainn, nó toit na dtinte fá chnoic

Bá é cuairt Obama ar an tír seo nó Eilíse nó lao órga eile

Chan fheil a fhios: ag na húdair a fhágaim cionroinnt chúise

Ach feicim seo, duillí agus torthaí na gcrann dubh creapálta,

Gas is fás na mbarraí ó mhaith.

Tá an t-aos óg ag réiteach don imeacht,

Muide atá i meán ár laethe, ag cuartach sna cófraí,

Sna reiligí réabtha.

Potato blight


Blight on the potato, a sudden withering,

Every stalk rotten, dead, swaying in the wind

Or lying broken.   No telling how’s the tuber

Underground, is it slime:  but no healthy food, that’s sure.

Was it the May scream of winter blast in early summer,

Was it that volcano in Iceland or the pall of smoke in gorsefires,

Was it the visit of Obama or Elizabeth or some other golden calf –

Let the authorities work out the cause, I don’t know.

But I see this, leaves and fruit crippled, black,

Stalks and growth all withered.

The young make plans to emigrate as we,

In middle years, search empty cupboards,

Ruined cemeteries.

Gleann Bheatha


Gleann chúng, an chuach ag glaoch

anall ón doire bheag ag bun na haille

macalla ag cur siolla lena ceol,

cú ach cú, cú ach cú.

Gleann chúng, nead an iolair thall,

a gearrcaigh fiáinte ag cur cosc orm theacht ina n-aice

mura mbí coinín agam dóibh, nó feoil shilteach éigin:

ní mín a gcaint, an t-aos óg seo, an gob craosach, fuilteach, borb.

Gleann chúng, mé ag éisteacht amach do ghlóraíl earraigh fia,

do bhualadh adharc comhraic, satailt na drúise.

Ní chluinim ach callán slabhrsá an chomhraic shíoraí

In éadan rhododendron thiarnaí na plandála.

Glenveagh national park


Narrow valley: cuckoo calls

From a small oakgrove over at the cliff-foot

So echo adds a syllable to her call,

Cuckoocuck, cuckoocuck.

Narrow valley, eagle nest high on far side,

Her wild brood forbids passage.   I lack

A rabbit for them, some dripping flesh, and they have no small talk

In their hungry beaks, their bloody tongues, staring eyes.

Narrow valley, I listen for the rutting call of stags,

The clash of antlers, stamping lust, but hear

Only the noise of ceaseless chainsaws, battling

The landlords’ planting, invasive rhododendron.