when looking is finding is knowing is the end of it all

when looking is finding is knowing

is the end of it all

I lick my thumb/ and dip it in mould,

I anoint the anointed/ leaf-shape.  Mould

blooms and pigments/ the back of your hand

like a birthmark—/my umber one

you are stained, stained

to perfection.

                        Seamus Heaney

                        Field Work

when below the cold surface of the snow

covered bog an infinite stillness is labored then borne.

when it is labored and borne by the first hand

to pull your wet matt of hair from your cheek

when the cheek is mother of pearl …

when the thick belch of the bog…

when the mud and nettles and small stones…

when the red blueberry leaves…

from your throat

when it’s the first early snow—who’ll know any

liberty from winter’s incessant hammer on the anvil of mornings

when maybe, instead, all of your last breath was tending

the last shape to take

(and, when finding one is even wanting to)—a shape only

the dead can take

when your father.

when your father:                                                                     :holds your hand.

           

                                    when that hush-hush surge.

                                    when it slips away.

                                    when everything everything goes and goes, it goes

                                    stone

                                    cold.