The tears have all been shed now, we’ve said our last goodbye's,

His soul's been blessed, he’s laid to rest, and it's now I feel alone,

He was more than just a father, a teacher my best friend,

And he can still be heard in the tunes we shared, as we played them on our own.


 As a boy he'd take me walking, through mountain field and stream,

And he'd show me things not known to kings, a secret between him and me,

Like the colours of the pheasant, as she rises in the dawn,

And how to fish and make a wish, beside the holy tree.


I thought he'd live forever, he seemed so big and strong,

But the minuits fly, the years roll by, for a father and his son,

Then suddenly when it happened, there was so much unsaid,

No second chance to tell him thanks for everything he's done.


I never will forget him for he made me what I am,

Though he may be gone, memories linger on,

And I miss him, the old man…………………………...Finbar Furey.


Some say love, it is a river that drowns the tender reed.

Some say love, it is a razor that leaves your soul to bleed.

Some say love, it is a hunger an endless aching need.

I say love, it is a flower and you, it’s only seed.

It's the heart, afraid of breaking that never learns to dance.

It's the dream, afraid of wakingthat never takes the chance.

It's the one who won't be takenwho cannot seem to give.

And the soul, afraid of dyingthat never learns to live.

When the night has been too lonelyand the road has been too long.

And you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong.

Just remember in the winterfar beneath the bitter snow.

Lies the seedthat with the sun's love, in the spring          

becomes the rose………………………………………………………Bette Midler


On sunlit tarmac,
On memories of the hearse

At walking pace
Between overgrown verges,

The dead here are borne
Towards the future.

When the funeral bell tolls
The grass is all a-tremble.

But only then.
Not every time any old bell


(Farewell to Seamus Heaney, Donnybrook Church 2nd September 2013)


A Herbal by Seamus Heaney

 A Herbal




Everywhere plants

Flourish among graves,

Sinking their roots

In all the dynasties

Of the dead.




Was graveyard grass

In our place

Any different?

Different from ordinary

Field grass?

Remember how you wanted

The sound recordist

To make a loop,

Wildtrack of your feet

Through the wet

At the foot of a field?  




Yet for all their lush

Compliant dialect

No way have plants here

Arrived at a settlement.

Not the mare's tail,

Not the broom or whins.

It must have to do

With the wind.  




Not that the grass itself

Ever rests in peace.

It too takes issue,

Now sets its face

To the wind,

Now turns its back.




"See me?" it says. "The wind

Has me well rehearsed

In the ways of the world.

Unstable is good.

Permission granted!

Go, then, citizen

Of the wind.

Go with the flow."  




The bracken

Is less boastful.

It closes and curls back

On its secrets,

The best kept

Upon earth.  



And, to be fair,

There is sun as well.

Nowhere else

Is there sun like here,

Morning sunshine

All day long.

Which is why the plants,

Even the bracken,

Are sometimes tempted

Into trust.  




On sunlit tarmac,

On memories of the hearse

At walking pace

Between overgrown verges,

The dead here are borne

Towards the future.  




When the funeral bell tolls

The grass is all a-tremble.

But only then.

Not every time any old bell





Broom Is like the disregarded

And company for them,

Shows them

They have to keep going,

That the whole thing's worth

The effort.

And sometimes

Like those same characters

When the weather's very good

Broom sings.  




Never, in later days,

Would fruit

So taste of earth.

There was slate

In the blackberries,

A slatey sap.




Run your hand into

The ditchback growth

And you'd grope roots,

Thick and thin.

But roots of what?

Once, one that we saw

Gave itself away,

The tail of a rat

We killed.  




We had enemies,

Though why we never knew.

Among them,


Malignant things, letting on

To be asleep.  





Part of a world

Nobody seemed able to explain

But that had to be

Put up with.

There would always be dock leaves

To cure the vicious stings.  




There were leaves on the trees

And growth on the headrigs

You could confess

Everything to.

Even your fears

Of the night,

Of people





What was better then

Than to crush a leaf or a herb

Between your palms,

Then wave it slowly, soothingly

Past your mouth and nose

And breathe?  




If you know a bit

About the universe

It's because you've taken it in

Like that,

Looked as hard

As you look into yourself,

Into the rat hole,

Through the vetch and dock

That mantled it.

Because you've laid your cheek

Against the rush clump

And known soft stone to break

On the quarry floor.  




Between heather and marigold,

Between sphagnum and buttercup,

Between dandelion and broom,

Between forget-me-not and honeysuckle,

As between clear blue and cloud,

Between haystack and sunset sky,

Between oak tree and slated roof,

I had my existence.

I was there.

Me in place and the place in me.




Where can it be found again,

An elsewhere world, beyond

Maps and atlases,

Where all is woven into

And of itself, like a nest

Of crosshatched grass blades?




Seamus Heaney

Human Chain (2010)



Write a new comment: (Click here)
Characters left: 160
DONE Sending...
See all comments

| Reply

Latest comments

19.10 | 23:46

Super idea John!
Wishing you all the very best.

17.10 | 02:24

Love the Liffy pic John!

28.09 | 03:00

Ok if the day job goes belly up you definitely have a backup with being a photographer... Nice pictures...

24.09 | 00:57

Love the website Johnny, well done and every good wish. Jeanette&Stephen

You liked this page