In fields where the wild grasses grow,
The words of Heaney softly flow.
His pen, a plough that tills the mind,
Unearthing truths of humankind.
The boglands whisper ancient tales,
As Heaney’s voice through time prevails.
With every line, a landscape drawn,
A poet’s heart by nature won.
His verses dance on Ireland’s shore,
A legacy that will endure.
From toil and soil to spirit’s flight,
His poetry, a beacon’s light.
Through seasons change and decades past,
The echoes of his work will last.
In every stanza, rhyme, and song,
Seamus Heaney’s spirit strong.