I’ll never see Heaney now…
Who will tell us the truth about ourselves?
Who will make us listen?
Who will keep us from the herd?
Who will remind us of the hope and the history, our foolishness, and our losses?
Rest now, Seamus.
I thought of walking round and around a space
Utterly empty, utterly a source
Where the decked chestnut tree had lost its place
In our front hedge above the wallflowers.
The white chips jumped and jumped and skitted high.
I heard the hatchet’s differentiated
Accurate cut, the crack, the sigh
And collapse of what luxuriated
Through the shocked tips and wreckage of it all.
Deep-planted and long gone, my coeval
Chestnut from a jam jar in a hole,
Its heft and hush became a bright nowhere,
A soul ramifying and forever
Silent, beyond silence listened for.