By now the flame was straight and still,

It spoke no more and began to drift away

From us, with sanction from Berrigan,

When another, that came behind it,

Drew our attention to its tip

With the strangled sounds that issued from it.

As a torture victim, shut in the romper room,

Will let out cries of pain as the Prods

Set about their sectarian DIY,

But because his mouth is strapped with

Insulation tape, the voice remains muffled,

So the dismal words here seemed eaten up by the flame.

Yet just as the voice will grow clear when the tape

Is ripped off, so now the words, having found

Their way to the tip of the flame,

Which gave them outlet like a tongue,

Became audible, and we heard it say:

‘Did I hear you talking in the voices

Of the living? If so, and if you

Have recently descended from the sweet air above,

Tell me, is Northern Ireland at war or at peace?

For I was once curate at Cullion,

Near the village of Desertmartin.’

I was still leaning forwards, trying to tune in

To his wavelength, when Berrigan touched me

On the shoulder and said to me:

‘You speak to him. He is of your land.’

And I, who was unprepared for my speech,

Leant further still towards the burning flame,

And said: ‘Spirit, flickering below in the pit