Murlough in the morning light

Sings a high exotic song,

Myth and memory twist and turn,

Maeve of Connaught passed this way.

On such a high archaic day

A dead bird drifted on the sea

And Deirdre died.

A sea as smooth as beaten bronze

Fills all the sphere beneath the sun.

Metallic hatred turns the heart

From broken flesh to blackened stone,

Torn tendons twist about the bone.

At last the Gaelic world has died

Imprisoned in the empty tomb.

Across the hills the suburbs flow,

A tide to kill the epic dream.

The claws of progress do not bleed

While tearing at the cloth of kings.

But through the sky a rocket sings

To purge the sickness of the earth

And seek the vacant moon.

September 1960