I am not the man I think I am.
On the wild and rocky coasts
On these isles by the sea of shame
Mists roll in off the Irish sea
Soak these shores with hardy flowers
to bloom in crevices, cling to fossil rings, 
too like vermilion skies, the lips of women,
to huddle within sound of summer laughter
Druid priestesses daub their menfolk
with mud as they, too, battle modernity
in all its Roman guises. All time distances
between rose and lily springs narrow
to make her songs sweeter, her harmonies
more certain to tear your heart to shreds.
I sing that you may hear me clearly
Praise the private lives of all the dead.