When you sat, far-eyed and cold, in the basalt throne Of the "wishing chair" at Giant's Causeway, The small of your back made very solid sense. Like a papoose at sap-time strapped to a maple tree, You gathered force out of the world-tree's hardness. If you stretched your hand forth, things might turn to stone. But you were only goose-fleshed skin and bone, The rocks and wonder of the world were only Lava crystallized, salts of the earth The wishing chair gave a savour to, its kelp And ozone freshening your outlook Beyond the range you thought you'd settled for. -- Seamus Heaney, born 1941, Co. Derry -- from "Squarings"