John Montague
Again, that note! A weaving
melancholy, like a bird crossing
moorland;
pale ice on a corrie
opening inward, soundless harp-
strings of rain:
the pathos
of letters in the 1916 Room
‘Mother, I thank …’
a podgy landmine,
Pearse’s swordstick leading to a care-
fully profiled picture.
That point
where folk and art meet murmurs
Herr Doctor as
the wail of tin
whistle climbs against fiddle, and
the bodhrán begins –
lost cry
of the yellow bittern!
Múscraí 