THE ASH PLANT He'll never rise again but he is ready. Entered like a mirror by the morning, He stares out the big window, wondering, Not caring if the day is bright or cloudy. An upstairs outlook on the whole country. First milk-lorries, first smoke, cattle, trees In damp opulence above damp hedges -- He has it to himself, he is like a sentry Forgotten and unable to remember The whys and wherefores of his lofty station, Wakening relieved yet in position, Disencumbered as a breaking comber. As his head goes light with light, his wasting hand Gropes desperately and finds the phantom limb Of an ash plant in his grasp, which steadies him. Now he has found his touch he can stand his ground Or wield the stick like a silver bough and come Walking again among us; the quoted judge. "I could have cut a better man out of the hedge!" God might have said the same, remembering Adam. -- Dangerous pavements. But I face the ice this year With my father's stick. -- Seamus Heaney, born Mossbawn, Co. Derry, 1939