The fields whisper your name, Seamus,
Your words, a melody of the soil,
Each furrow, a line of verse,
Ploughed deep into the heart of Ireland.

Your pen, a spade, turned the earth,
Revealing the treasures of the past,
With each stroke, you unearthed,
The voices lost, the tales untold.

In the quiet of the evening,
Where the bogs breathe in silence,
Your spirit lingers, a gentle presence,
In the soft rustle of the reeds.

Though your voice has stilled,
Your poems, like seeds, will grow,
In the fertile minds of those,
Who find solace in your words.