Scrap iron - A brown mountain at the Dublin docks: - Twisted motor chassis Engines that once possessed creative energy Stoves, wheels, Jumbled tumbled A catalogue-maker's puzzle.
From Published Books
Pioneers
They wandered through the dark places and they kept The prideful passionate horse tight-reined that would have leapt The fence dividing star from meaner dust, To trample down the corn which yields all men a crust.
Soft Ease
The holes in my coat of want Were the praise of good clothing. Her chill indifference vaunt Whom I loved was the proving Of earnest young loving.
The Chase
I followed Wisdom A night and a night And a day and a day Clay-knowing to spite.
The Goat of Slieve Donard
I saw an old white goat on the slope of Slieve Donard, Nibbling daintily at the herb leaves that grow in the crevasses, And I thought of James Stephens - He wrote of an old white goat within my remembering, Seven years ago I read - Now it comes back Full of the dreaming black beautiful crags.
To A Late Poplar
Not yet half-drest O tardy bride! And the priest And the bridegroom and the guests Have been waiting a full hour.
Twisted Furrows
She walked with me yesterday Guiding my plough Straight from headland to headland…. Lament with me now.
War and Peace
Do you hear that noise, Mother, That comes over the sea? Is that God the Father raging In His Eternity?
Ethical
You who have not sown Will eat the bitter bread And beg the sweetness of a stone Flung at Saint Stephen's head.
Candida
FOR JOHN BETJEMAN'S DAUGHTER Candida is one to-day, What is there that one can say? One is where the race begins Or the sum that counts our sins; But the mark time makes to-morrow Shapes the cross of joy or sorrow.