For Nuala Ní Dhómhnaill
And in spite everything I have now,
Especially in spite of the easy life,
The vision still lives intensely within.
There’s a beehive hut high on Screag
– Roofed still between earth and sky –
That would be enough.
Ravens speaks fraternally there,
A hare runs uphill,
Golden plovers are incandescent.
I’d have no bean-row at all there
(It’s common knowledge that beans
Don't grow on islands, or exposed mountains).
I’d live on fraughans, silverweed roots, chickweed,
And maybe a bottle of Laphroaig
Hoarded in a niche in the wall of the hut.
I’d have the odd drop on fine evenings,
Perched between the door-jambs watching
The sun set blood-red over Sliabh an Iolair.
Ingrained in the turf-smoke of every sip
Would be taste of all the bridges I burned,
And let that be no occasion for remorse.
Do Nuala Ní Dhómhnaill
'Gus in ainneoin gach a bhfuil agam,
de dheargainneoin saol na míne,
Tá an aisling thréan im' intinn.
Tá clochán in airde ar chliathán na Screige
– Díon fós ina sheasamh idir spéir agus talamh –
a dhéanfadh cúis.
Labhraíonn an fiach go bráthardha ann,
ritheann giorria i gcoinne fána,
Dónn an fheadóg bhuí mar ghríos.
Ní bheadh iomairí pónairí agam ann,
(Tá's ag madraí an bhaile nach bhfásann
pónairí ar oileán ná ar shliabh gan fothain),
Mhairfinn ar fhraocháin, rútaí brioscláin, fuilig,
Agus b'fhéidir buidéal Laphroaig
i dtaisce in almóir an chlocháin.
Bheadh braon agam tráthnóntaí breátha,
Suite idir ursain an dorais ag féachaint
ar ghrian na fola thar Shliabh an Iolair.
Do-scartha ó dheatach na móna sa bholgam
bheadh blas na ndroichead dóite uilig,
Is ná chuirfeadh san aon mhairg orm.