by Seamus Heaney
A rowan like a lipsticked girl.
Between the by-road and the main road
Alder trees at a wet and dripping distance
Stand off among the rushes.
There are the mud-flowers of dialect
And the immortelles of perfect pitch
And that moment when the bird sings very close
To the music of what happens.
Please be sure to visit Jama Rattigan at Jama’s Alphabet Soup for the Poetry Friday Roundup. This week’s hostess with the mostest has some warm cider and apple cider doughnuts waiting for you!