In the quiet fields where you once roamed,
Your voice now rests, your spirit homed.
The pen that carved the Irish soul,
Now silent, but its echoes toll.

From peat and bog, your words arose,
Crafting tales that never close.
The land that shaped your tender verse,
Now mourns its bard, a heartfelt curse.

We walk the paths your lines have drawn,
Feeling loss, yet moving on.
Through storied fields and fabled glen,
Your legacy, a guiding pen.

Though death has claimed your earthly form,
Your poetry, forever warm.
Seamus Heaney, in hearts you stay,
A light that guides us, come what may.