Gobsmacked, I am. Simply gobsmacked. What an incredible poem, Kevin! Thanks for sharing it with us. Now I'm just sitting here trying to figure out what excuse, if any, I have for having reached the age of 37 without buying so much as a single volume of Heaney. Must correct that, I think.

Well, to continue in the vein of musical poetry, you can't go wrong with the classics, and while this one of Billy Yeats' is well-known enough to be a bit cliched by now, I still love it:

The Fiddler Of Dooney

When I play on my fiddle in Dooney,
Folk dance like a wave of the sea;
My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,
My brother in Mocharabuiee.

I passed my brother and cousin:
They read in their books of prayer;
I read in my book of songs
I bought at the Sligo fair.

When we come at the end of time
To Peter sitting in state,
He will smile on the three old spirits,
But call me first through the gate;

For the good are always the merry,
Save by an evil chance,
And the merry love the fiddle,
And the merry love to dance:

And when the folk there spy me,
They will all come up to me,
With "Here is the fiddler of Dooney!"
And dance like a wave of the sea.