Heaneymash

and you Tacitus
observe how I make my grove
an old crannog
piled by the fearful dead:
I had thought the mole
a big-boned coulter,
my sack a black glacier
wrinkling, dyed weaves
and phoenician stitchwork
retted in my breasts,
Will Brangwens ghost
from the hot soot -
a breaking sheaf of light
abroad in the hiss
and clash of stooking,
the sunflower, dreaming umber:
I found only the secular
powers of the Atlantic thundering.