After one more night of erosion and nearer the grave，
Then stand and gaze from the window at break of day
As a shearwater skims the ridge of an incoming wave；
And I think of my son a dolphin in the Aegean，
A sprite among sails knife-bright in a seasonal wind，
And wish he were here where currachs walk on the ocean
To ease with his talk the solitude locked in my mind.
I sit on a stone after lunch and consider the glow
Of the sun through mist， a pearl bulb containèdly fierce；
A rain-shower darkens the schist for a minute or so
Then it drifts away and the sloe-black patches disperse.
Croagh Patrick towers like Naxos over the water
And I think of my daughter at work on her difficult art
And wish she were with me now between thrush and plover，
Wild thyme and sea-thrift， to lift the weight from my heart.
The young sit smoking and laughing on the bridge at evening
Like birds on a telephone pole or notes on a score.
A tin whistle squeals in the parlour， once more it is raining，
Turf-smoke inclines and a wind whines under the door；
And I lie and imagine the lights going on in the harbor
Of white-housed Náousa， your clear definition at night，
And wish you were here to upstage my disconsolate labour
As I glance through a few thin pages and switch off the light.