The trance of driving
down each undulation
like unlit carriages through fields at night,
day and night by winds as slow as a cart
as you bend in the shower
with water in it,
where only helicopters and curlews
deepen their ochres.
I stand at the edge of centuries
lightly as pampooties
to break the light ice—
our one chance to know the incomparable.
For two days I groped over them,
caught like a far hill in a fit of sunshine.
seed text: Opened Ground, by Seamus Heaney