Kay’s
at the window playing concertina to the Bluestacks,
Clar,
Donegal town and
the sea,
a
grinning
guitar string beyond.
The
wind’s taken up the
rhythm, playing the birches;
and
the
pampas plume, no
dancer himself, is
jinking
to and fro;
a
kill-joy
stem
jerking
him earthward over and over.
There
are
birds
on the wires spaced like a code, clouds perched
between them in
shades of
white to cream, ivory and
pearl.
A
plume of smoke rising diffuse in some distant trees
is
solidifying, where the sky begins, into molar Ben Bulben,
and
all is plush and wonderful in Spring’s fresh greenery.