In the 1960s, when she was a young woman, and he was ‘just a cub’, the auntie met Seamus Heaney. Known for keeping things safe and well hidden around the house, she has no idea where the poem is now. The typed poem, the shape of the letters texturing the page, the puncturing force of a full stop. The sheet is signed by the unpublished poet.
We spent part of Friday night on the phone, auntie and I, talking of family things and poetry. Sharing the news, the loss and Heaney’s words. She remembering that night, me remembering previous tellings of it.
Limbo
Fishermen at Ballyshannon
Netted an infant last night
Along with the salmon.
An illegitimate spawning,
.
A small one thrown back
To the waters. But I’m sure
As she stood in the shallows
Ducking him tenderly
.
Till the frozen knobs of her wrists
Were dead as the gravel,
He was a minnow with hooks
Tearing her open.
.
She waded in under
The sign of her cross.
He was hauled in with the fish.
Now limbo will be
.
A cold glitter of souls
Through some far briny zone.
Even Christ’s palms, unhealed,
Smart and cannot fish there.
.
Published in Wintering Out (1972)
me, mine, and other bits 