CALLED I went to find the grave of my grandmother who died before my time. And hers. I searched among marsh grass and granite and single headstones and smashed lettering and archangel wings and found none. For once, I said, I will face this landscape and look at it as she was looked upon: Unloved because unknown. Unknown because unnamed: Glass Pistol Castle disappeared. Baltray and then Clogher Head. To the west the estuary of the Boyne -- stripped of its battles and history -- became only willow trees and distances. I drove back in the half-light of late summer on anonymous roads on my journey home as the constellations rose overhead, some of them twisted into women: pinioned and winged and single-handedly holding high the dome and curve and horizon of today and tomorrow. All the ships looking up to them. All the compasses made true by them. All the night skies named for their sorrow. -- Ms. Eavan Boland (born Dublin 1944)