Heaney At The Pier Cafť
Seamus Heaney posts his grandson
into a high chair, and takes a seat
in the booth opposite me.
I know itís Seamus by his twinkling.
The waitress delivers a brace of spaghetti dinners
and the Heaneys take up their forks and dig in.
They eat in contented masculine silence.
The boy is keen but not adept.
Blonde fat curls gather at the chairís foot
as if this were the barberís
on the occasion of the childís first haircut.
Seamus beams at his grandson
and settles his gaze out to sea.
If you have any comments on this poem, Juliet Antill would
be pleased to hear from you.