for John McGahern
At times I see it, present
As a bright day, or a hill,
The only way of saying something
Luminously as possible.
Not the accumulated richness
Of an old historical language —
That musk-deep odour!
But a slow exactness
Which recreates experience
By ritualizing its details —
Pale web of curtain, width
Of deal table, till all
Takes on a witch-bright glow
And even the clock on the mantel
Moves its hands in a fierce delight
Of so, and so, and so.
A Chosen Light (1967)
and The Rough Field (1972)