HOW COULD REAVY DIE! The plumber of the hornpipes is dead. The old diviner with the hazel bow, That found the Shannon's source And made its magic waters flow across the world. "NO" she said "he's not dead, How could Reavy die!" And who are you to say! "I am the Wind: The Wind That drove the clouds in herds Above the Cavan hills and Drexel too And whispered to the oats in Barnagrove. I am the breeze that kissed O'Carolan's face With moisture on my lips 'Til notes danced within his mind Like flames behind a blind. I am the breadth in Reavy's body I used to whistle in his mouth Merely oxygen upon arrival But virgin music coming out. He would hold me in the evenings And we'd play within his soul He tamed me with his reverence But I always had to go . . . So I bore him sounds of sweetness Some were sad and some were glad And he composed half a thousand tunes About the happy time we had." Hush! I whispered. Did you see his fiddle On the altar - silent as a stone And his body on the grave in Drexel Hill? Clamped on the hole in a final salute Like an old finger frozen on a flute. Did you see the people in a circle Standing sadly in the snow, When the pipes refused to play in the cold? "I was there" she said I am the Breath of the earth. Every mouth is a wisp of my prayer Breathing blessings of incense on the bites of the air Because life has the edge on the ice. Listen my friend, to the lad with the whistle With his finger tips timid and cold. See the life that he brings to the old man's tune And the leaks that he brings to the eyes. See Reavy arise from the holes in the tin . . And announce on his grave "I'm alive!" Kath <mzmouser@earthlink.net> ~`* `*' `*' `* `*' `*' *' `*' *' `*' `* `*' *' `*' ~~~