from the Irish
Hard by flame-coloured rowans,
A little past the cabin of the smith,
(Whom he resembles)
You’ll come upon the poet’s place,
Though from afar you’ll hear him first,
Testing the mettle of his tongue.
Take heed.
Sparks fly in that household,
Rants at landlords, priests, middlemen,
Rages over beauties lost, fields seized, trees felled.
Yet from those fires rise
Tempered words.
(Oxford Magazine 2011)