My father judged my poems
As “laundry” hung in narrow places
A thin line of mismatched flags
Waving between tenement buildings
While I still pray they might
Stand in sight of those “Bone Dreams”
Those lines of “skinny quatrains”*
By Seamus Heaney
My father judged my poems
As “laundry” hung in narrow places
A thin line of mismatched flags
Waving between tenement buildings
While I still pray they might
Stand in sight of those “Bone Dreams”
Those lines of “skinny quatrains”*
By Seamus Heaney