Such Dug Up Stuff
I could bite on Mr Heaney’s
lust-sight of her
of lost flesh
of navvy-dug amber nipples
under hard-weighed stones
over her cracked oak-bones
which are not
my spoken words
Language is not my tight weave
of Sussex-ness
no fluttergrub’s spade
to turn my empty laine of chalkland
His words are kissed intimacies
in his Castledawson rooting –
in peat-dug dampness
of vowel-soundings
If only we could speak such –
with such – reverence and blind love
of a long-buried bog-stickiness –
then this would be my
other language –
one not yet fully known