To dig with his pen was his vow

To dig with his pen was his vow, and how

now he has wowed and woven his way into universal hearts, like an uber-crafter

cajoling hewn stanzas from mined

memory of the deep personal, minted diamond cuts

from boggy mud, impregnated with seeds of tales

grounded gentry was his stock, those of the honest soil

breathing authenticated wisdoms of decency, with truth

permeating all complexions nestling in the latent empathy

accessibility in word and deed, peppered his every utterance,

generosity without bounds glistened through every semantic sinew,

yet still the canny odyssey for layered ambivalence abounded

imagery with metaphor juxtaposed and enmeshed to spawn

afresh the inspirations camouflaged in mundane minutiae

fanning out worldwide to a gorging audience of avid appreciators

the haw juice, the island station, and the slinking skunk embark

on a circled district of bog naturalisms and mossy conjuralisms

all the time entrancing, illuminating, satisfying to the nth degree

what now for our nobel son of letters, feted and

fated to fame and the iconic; truth will always out, so

his governance of the tongue shall endure to inspire

he’s wintering out for good now, yet his symbolic cadences will

resonate for generations who care to sup of the deep allegory

laced within; in perpetuity his diversifications will prosper

the naturalist has not died, nor have his secrets gone to the grave;

he has merely been recast into memorable immortality, consigned

to haunt and taunt the republics of our conscientious sensibilities

Bravo go bragh, a Sheamus

Jim Cosgrove

Lismore

Co Waterford