Sa n'áit n'ard na gaoithe
In the place of the high winds.
Here is the caught, the girdled, and exalted.
Here red runs the cup,
A heavy breathlessness turned fresh,
A tune fashioned from rasps of air.
And now a soft sullen laughter drops
from level to level,
fast, like wet fabric to erosion whittled rock:
from you to I, and back again,
hot, the movement of lips
and elation in the brushing of muscles and gluttonous skin,
where we speak in tongues,
this is all I have ever done-
Two hundred years ago today.
This is a prayer to the symbol,
The shaper of shapes,
That single thought,
One consideration above the final:
In the name of the cinder,
and the strangulation of the air
as it falls;
to a halt,
in pebble hordes,
near those left-behind marks:
where we may not yet have been.