The Singer’s House

[Spoken]
When they said Carrickfergus I could hear
The frosty echo of saltminers' picks
I imagined it, chambered and glinting
A township built of light

What do we say any more
To conjure the salt of our earth?
So much comes and is gone
That should be crystal and kept

And amicable weathers
That bring up the grain of things
Their tang of season and store
Are all the packing we'll get

So I say to myself Gweebarra
And its music hits off the place
Like water hitting off granite
I see the glittering sound

Framed in your window
Knives and forks set on oilcloth
And the sеals' heads, suddenly outlined
Scanning еverything

People here used to believe
That drowned souls lived in the seals
At spring tides they might change shape
They loved music and swam in for a singer

Who might stand at the end of summer
In the mouth of a whitewashed turf-shed
His shoulder to the jamb, his song
A rowboat far out in evening

When I came here first you were always singing
A hint of the clip of the pick
In your winnowing climb and attack
Raise it again, man. We still believe what we hear