Asian noodle and Lemon pound cake with Blueberry sauce.
Funeral Rites
I
I shouldered a kind of manhood
stepping in to lift the coffins
of dead relations.
They had been laid out
in tainted rooms,
their eyelids glistening,
their dough-white hands
shackled in rosary beads.
The puffed knuckles
had unwrinkled, the nails
were darkened, the wrists
obediently sloped.
The dulse-brown shroud,
the quilted satin cribs:
I knelt courteously
admiring it all
as wax melted down and veined the candles,
the flames hovering
to the women hovering behind me.
And always, in a corner,
the coffin lid,
its nail-heads dressed
with little gleaming crosses.
Dear soapstone masks,
kissing their igloo brows
had to suffice
before the nails were sunk
and the black glacier
of ear funeral
pushed away.
II
Now as news comes in of each neighbourly murder
we pine for ceremony,
customary rhythms:
the temperate footsteps
of a cortege, winding past
each blinded home.
I would restore
the great chambers of Boyne,
prepare a sepulcher
under the cupmarked stones.
Out of side-street and bye-roads
purring family cars
nose into line,
the whole country tuens
to the muffled drumming
of ten thousand engines.
Somnambulant wormen,
left behind, move
through emptied kitchesn
imagining our slow triumph
towards the mounds.
Quiet as a serpent
in its grassy boulevard
the procession drags its tail
out of the Gap of the North
as its head already enters
the megalithic doorway.
III
When they have put the stone back in tis mouth
we will drive north again
past Strang and Carling fjords
the cud o memory
allayed for once, arbitration
of the feud placated,
imagining those under the hill
disposed like Gunnar
who lay beautiful
inside his burial mound,
though dead by violence
and unavenged.
Men said that he was chanting
verses about honour
and that four lights burned
in corners of the chamber:
which opened then, as he turned
with a joyful face
to look at the moon.
Seamus Heaney
poems
1965-1975
