Sweeney Astray (8 page)

75

 

Moling:

 

So, you would steal a march on us,

up and breakfasting so early!

 

 

Sweeney:

 

Not so very early, priest.

Terce has come in Rome already.

 

 

 

Moling:

 

And what knowledge has a fool

about the hour of terce in Rome?

 

 

Sweeney:

 

The Lord makes me His oracle

from sunrise till sun's going down.

 

 

 

Moling:

 

Then speak to us of hidden things,

give us tidings of the Lord.

 

 

Sweeney:

 

Not I. But if you are Moling,

you are gifted with the Word.

 

 

 

Moling:

 

Mad as you are, you are sharp-witted.

How do you know my face and name?

 

 

Sweeney:

 

In my days astray I rested

in this enclosure many a time.

 

 

 

Moling:

 

But Sweeney, son of Colman Cuar,

why won't you settle in one place?

 

 

Sweeney:

 

The resting place that I prefer

is life in everlasting peace.

 

 

 

Moling:

 

God help you then. Do you not dread

the slippery brim of hell's wide mouth?

 

 

Sweeney:

 

My one affliction is that God

denies me repose on earth.

 

 

 

Moling:

 

Come closer. Come here and share

whatever morsels you would like.

 

 

Sweeney:

 

There are worse things, priest, than hunger.

Imagine living without a cloak.

 

 

 

Moling:

 

Then you are welcome to my smock,

and welcome to take my cowl.

 

 

Sweeney:

 

Sometimes memory brings back

times it hurts me to recall.

 

 

 

Moling:

 

Are you Sweeney, the bogey-man,

escaped out of the fight at Moira?

 

 

Sweeney:

 

I am the early bird, the one

who scavenges, if I am Sweeney.

 

 

 

Moling:

 

Mad as you are, how does it come

you were fit to recognize me?

 

 

Sweeney:

 

In this enclosure many times

I watched you from a far eyrie.

 

 

 

Moling:

 

Look at this leaf of Kevin's book,

the coilings on this psalter's page.

 

 

Sweeney:

 

The yew leaf coils around my nook

in Glen Bolcain's foliage.

 

 

 

Moling:

 

This churchyard, this flush of colour,

is there no pleasure here for you?

 

 

Sweeney:

 

My pleasure is great and other:

the hosting that day at Moira.

 

 

 

Moling:

 

I will sing Mass, make a hush

of high celebration.

 

 

Sweeney:

 

Leaping an ivy bush

is a higher calling even.

 

 

 

Moling:

 

My ministry is only toil,

the weak and strong both exhaust me.

 

 

Sweeney:

 

I toil to a bed on the chill

steeps of Benevenagh.

 

 

 

Moling:

 

When your end comes, will it be

death by water, in holy ground?

 

 

Sweeney:

 

It will be early when I die.

One of your herds will make the wound.

 

80

              

This is sad, herd, this was deliberate,

outrageous, sickening and sinful.

Whoever struck here will live to regret

killing the king, the saint, the holy fool.

 

 

 

What good did you expect to come of it?

Repentance will be denied you at your death.

Your soul will go howling to the devil,

your body draw an unabsolved last breath.

 

 

 

But I expect to be with him in heaven,

united in a single strain of prayer.

The soul of the true guest is sped by psalms

on the lips of a fasting, chanting choir.

 

 

 

My heart is breaking with pity for him.

He was a man of fame and high birth.

He was a king, he was a madman.

His grave will be a hallowing of earth.

 

83

 

Sweeney:

 

There was a time when I preferred

the turtle-dove's soft jubilation

as it flitted round a pool

to the murmur of conversation.

 

 

 

 

 

There was a time when I preferred

the blackbird singing on the hill

and the stag loud against the storm

to the clinking tongue of this bell.

 

 

 

 

 

There was a time when I preferred

the mountain grouse crying at dawn

to the voice and closeness

of a beautiful woman.

 

 

 

 

 

There was a time when I preferred

wolf-packs yelping and howling

to the sheepish voice of a cleric

bleating out plainsong.

 

 

 

 

 

You are welcome to pledge healths

and carouse in your drinking dens;

I will dip and steal water

from a well with my open palm.

 

 

 

 

 

You are welcome to that cloistered hush

of your students' conversation;

I will study the pure chant

of hounds baying in Glen Bolcain.

 

 

 

 

 

You are welcome to your salt meat

and fresh meat in feasting-houses;

I will live content elsewhere

on tufts of green watercress.

 

 

 

 

 

The herd's sharp spear wounded me

and passed clean through my body.

Ah Christ, who disposed all things, why

was I not killed at Moira?

 

 

 

 

 

Of all the innocent lairs I made

the length and breadth of Ireland

I remember an open bed

above the lough in Mourne.

 

 

 

 

 

Of all the innocent lairs I made

the length and breadth of Ireland

I remember bedding down

above the wood in Glen Bolcain.

 

 

 

 

 

To you, Christ, I give thanks

for your Body in communion.

Whatever evil I have done

in this world, I repent.

 

85

              

I am standing beside Sweeney's tomb

remembering him. Wherever he

migrated in flight from home

will always be dear to me.

 

 

 

Because Sweeney loved Glen Bolcain

I learned to love it, too. He'll miss

the fresh streams tumbling down,

the green beds of watercress.

 

 

 

He would drink his sup of water from

the well yonder we have called

the Madman's Well; now his name

keeps brimming in its sandy cold.

 

 

 

I waited long but knew he'd come.

I welcomed, sped him as a guest.

With holy viaticum

I limed him for the Holy Ghost.

 

 

 

Because Sweeney was a pilgrim

to the stoup of every well

and every green-frilled, cress-topped stream,

their water's his memorial.

 

 

 

Now, if it be the will of God,

rise, Sweeney, take this guiding hand

that has to lay you in the sod

and draw the dark blinds of the ground.

 

 

 

I ask a blessing, by Sweeney's grave.

His memory flutters in my breast.

His soul roosts in the tree of love.

His body sinks in its clay nest.