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Béiteáil
Béiteáil is ea mo thine Chásca
beo cois claí i nGort na gCrann.
Ní heol dom más scothán
den aiteann Gaelach
den aiteann Gallda
a ghéilleann dom lann
sleaiseála ó phréamh go beann
órga an tráth seo bliana.
An chumhracht mheala a bholathaím
sara gcaithim ar an gcarn é
agus pléascann ina bhothaire
le sop féir is díosal.
Loiscneoir mé ag cruthú spáis
chun fáis ach nuair a éagann
an bladhmann tugann gothaí na ngéag
dúdhóite chun cuimhne
i dtobainne an bháis
coirp a slogadh sa lasrach
ar an mbóthar go Basra.
BURNING FURZE
My Easter fire is a living furze bush
burning by a ditch in Trees Field.
I don’t know if it’s native furze
or invaders’ gorse that yields before
my slasher’s blade from root
to golden head this time of year.
I breathe the honey fragrance
then thrust it on the pile
and a smoke-cloud erupts
with a fist of hay and diesel.
I am an incinerator making room
for new growth;
but when the flame dies down
the charred limbs left burnt black recall
the suddenness of death
bodies swallowed by the blaze
on the road to Basra.