So winter closed its fist
And got it stuck in the pump.
The plunger froze up a lump

In its throat, ice founding itself
Upon iron. The handle
Paralysed at an angle.

Then the twisting of wheat straw
into ropes, lapping them tight
Round stem and snout, then a light

That sent the pump up in a flame
It cooled, we lifted her latch,
Her entrance was wet, and she came. 

Added: on December 6th, 2005 at 8:20 PM | Viewed: 1453 times | Comments (2)

Poet: Seamus Heaney
Poem: Rite of Spring

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