Published as a handmade book in a limited edition in Co Donegal by Ballagh Studio with
He is poise, trapped in the forelock of a wave;
He is balance, entombed between tremblings.
He is wisdom, buried in the black eye
Of a winter’s bog-hole; he is silence.
He is what fleetness is: not quicksilver
Nor lightning; he is falling water.
He is endurance, veined in rock;
His spirit is all muscle, and thew;
It is all sinew, woven in the clotted heart of old oak.
He is anger, he is disdain, he is impatience;
His mind is a closed book.
He is nobility; he is beyond touch;
He is distance; the night sky is his estate;
He occupies the height of it,
He occupies the width of it.