for Michael Hartnett br br br We always knew there was no Orpheus in Ireland. br No music stored at the doors of hell. br No god to make it. br No wild beasts to weep and lie down to it. br br But I remember an evening when the sky br was underworld-dark at four, br when ice had seized every part of the city br and we sat talking – br the air making a wreath for our cups of tea. br br And you began to speak of our own gods. br Our heartbroken pantheon. br br No Attic light for them and no Herodotus. br But thin rain and dogfish and the stopgap br of the sharp cliffs br they spent their winters on. br br And the pitch-black Atlantic night. br How the sound br of a bird’s wing in a lost language sounded. br br You made the noise for me. br Made it again. br Until I could see the flight of it: suddenly br br the silvery lithe rivers of the south-west br lay down in silence br and the savage acres no one could predict br were all at ease, soothed and quiet and br br listening to you, as I was. As if to music, as if to peace.