A rowan like a lipsticked girl.
Between the by-road and the main road
Alder trees at a wet and dripping distance
Stand off among the rushes.
There are the mud-flowers of dialect
And the immortelles of perfect pitch
And that moment when the bird sings very close
To the music of what happens
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Comments about this poem (Song by Seamus Heaney )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
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