in my wake. Light ekes in, a minute or two each
day, slow slow slow.
A few years back I happened upon The Clare Island Survey
by the poet Sean Lysaght while perusing the shelves at Kennys
in Galway (when they still had shelves of books). I was
delighted to make his acquaintance last summer when
he gave a reading in Westport (where he lives) to celebrate
the publication of Venetian Epigrams, his translations
of Goethe. His blog, Stonechat, is a precise and evocative
observation of the birdlife of his landscape, and a blog
I return to when Ireland calls. I am especially enamored
of thelast line of this entry, as I feel that same impatience
growing by the hour:
The song of the chaffinch is more discursive. My provisional
phonetic translation is as follows: No, really, this is how
we freely spend our time puzzling things. The phrase can be
repeated as often as the weather allows. I heard it
yesterday morning in a small copse of hazel near my house.
The morning was very mild and you could sense the birds'
impatience to be getting on with the business of spring.
we freely spend our time puzzling things. The phrase can be
repeated as often as the weather allows. I heard it
yesterday morning in a small copse of hazel near my house.
The morning was very mild and you could sense the birds'
impatience to be getting on with the business of spring.
