Seamus Heaney R.I.P.
¶ 1
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Like his father and grandfather
we heft with shovels and spades
but our straining rumps
only shift the stigmatised snow
or fork puddles from the pitch
to leave our friable fields,
fit for fretting
and the fricative foraging of forwards
¶ 2
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their toil, is in the drills
under command of a torturer’s tongue
¶ 3
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any blight, in the verdant world of viewing
is from over-consumption
¶ 4
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and as observers rather than partakers
we dig not with pen and thumb
but a well thumbed digital dashboard
seeking a qwertifycation of synopsis and syntax
pursuing punditry and panache
tilling for the turn of phrase
that can do justice to the turn and dash
toward the goal
of recognition, achievement
and immortality
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