'mo cheann is gan ann ach inead na súl'
adúirt compánach leis tréis oíche óil

ach tá scóip ar feadh do radhairc anso:
fairsinge is fuinneoga, leámharaic

de ghrian deireadh fómhair ag teacht
is ag imeacht tríd an ngloine gan stró,

naomhóga ag seoladh thar dhrompla
na díleann anonn is síofra ag labhairt leis

i nguth tuaisceartach ón raidió ar an gclabhar;
ar an bhfalla, tá teastas oidhreachta

sínithe ag an aire gnóthaí eachtracha
a thugann deoir le súil an tseabhaic

a shantaíonn tír chúng is cosán caol
mar a siúlann siad, duine i ndiaidh duine

cois faille, scáil gach fir, mná is linbh
ag triall ar oileán bán nár thréig iad

For Mike Ceárna, Blasketman
Springfield, Samhain 2013

'my head with nothing in it only the eye
sockets', his buddy said after a night

out, but there's scope as far you can see
in this place: all space and windows,

october light a laverock coming and going
as he pleases through the panes,

naomhógs cresting the swollen waves
and a ghostgirl whispering some northern

cant from the radio on the dresser;
on the wall, the heritage cert signed

by the minister for foreign affairs
draws a tear to the eye of a hawk

who longs for straitened land
and narrow paths where they walk

single file along a cliff, the shadow
of every man, woman, and child

washed up on the whited island
that never left them

Louis de Paor’s recently published a bilingual selection of his work, The brindled cat and the nightingale’s tongue (Bloodaxe )