Spring Music

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.