In Thermopylae

i.m. Seamus Heaney

                Your

longed-for music, through cement, through wood,through the guttural autumn taxis,

                unclouding

swift and pale down avenues, with the starkoutbreak of troops in the epic muslin, black

as dawn's cinders, towards the true northof your irises' extinction, afire, to-torn flashes

of dark at wakes, where crude bouncesbeyond any proof

                God outpaces

the supposition of your death. All remains likean erring spring, in another place,

Thermopylae: theresplintering coals in water hiss, Sea Sea-moss Sea-must,

                assailed by breath

the sun-struck boy, near and faint,doing homage in pieces

                the ancient savings

with nothing said, all, in a way, screams.