Relax, you bum! / You know the poems have

always come/ even your doubts when they’re

 from the heart/presage new terrifying works

  of art. The spirit of Port-muck-Muckish gap.

 

The poet’s house is alive and kicking, in me.

I had three mentors in my life, and he was one

Who took me from the streets of Belfast.

A trinity of them three moved in me.

I tried to give what he gave. A master's decree.

 

Setting up a creative link Belfast-Dublin-Derry-

Donegal-Portadown. Like him,
I took a massive stroke.

An-your-ism muck into a golden moment, a negative

capability awoke with this poem written between

sleep and awake knowing he will never

ever be dead in my no mind’s eye.

 

Alchemist of poetry through The Muckish gap.

His poetic language was like a sacred skimming stone.

I can’t picture him throwing the stone on the beach

with Ben his son but it’s felt rippling across the waves.