From main roads through the pass
and there, beneath,
as if a mountain gate over
a valley, lake or bay
a golden road
to visit a past,
Peig, the Blaskets,
basket of another age
of literature,
all writers on the island,
an embryo,
of Ireland, vacated
to new lands.
Or round Slea head,
a bleak peak,
a romance with Ryan's
daughter.
A corner, fluid
of memory and romance,
Now we are too
sophisticated,
beyond the word
of linking
mountain and sea,
and honesty.
dingle beautiful town.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem