“The Race”

The race at Clarke’s Mill

Its quick surly gleam

Under brick walls and willows

Blackwater trench

Channel of lavish

All in the ear

A hiss then and rip

Of wheels on wet tarmac

Like hot steam let off

Along the Broagh Road

Who’s that on his bike

Tears on cold cheeks

A grandfather dead

Little more than an hour

Him first with the news

Most odd to be crying

And pedalling hard

The breath of fresh air

As old as the hills

Full in his face

His eye on the road

— Seamus Heaney (1939-2013)

This is drawn from “ The Poems of Seamus Heaney .”