BURNING FURZE

My Easter fire is a living furze bush
burning by a ditch in Trees Field.
I don’t know if it’s native furze
or invaders’ gorse that yields before
my slasher’s blade from root
to golden head this time of year.
I breathe the honey fragrance
then thrust it on the pile
and a smoke-cloud erupts
with a fist of hay and diesel.
I am an incinerator making room
for new growth;
but when the flame dies down
the charred limbs left burnt black recall
the suddenness of death
bodies swallowed by the blaze
on the road to Basra.

Béiteáil

Béiteáil

Béiteáil is ea mo thine Chásca
beo cois claí i nGort na gCrann.
Ní heol dom más scothán
den aiteann Gaelach
den aiteann Gallda
a ghéilleann dom lann
sleaiseála ó phréamh go beann
órga an tráth seo bliana.
An chumhracht mheala a bholathaím
sara gcaithim ar an gcarn é
agus pléascann ina bhothaire
le sop féir is díosal.
Loiscneoir mé ag cruthú spáis
chun fáis ach nuair a éagann
an bladhmann tugann gothaí na ngéag
dúdhóite chun cuimhne
i dtobainne an bháis
coirp a slogadh sa lasrach
ar an mbóthar go Basra.