The Lure (for Seán Ó Riada)

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!

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