A VISIT TO BRIDGE HOUSE (for Austin Clarke) An old house with trees and twisting river. >From here you watch Ireland grow older And calmly note down each change and failure. The poor, the church, the newly rich, The subterfuges of the state, desecration Of the beautiful, both made and nature's: Who would have thought the Muse could carry Such burdens and retain her youthful beauty? April, and the sky broods, awaiting rain. Beyond the bridge, your light invites me To a book-walled room and talk of greater days. Your gentle voice escorts me in with questions. Happily you recall the past with humorous talk Of Yeats, Russell, Moore and others gone away, All imaged in poses, phrases that slide One into another till past and present are one. Over tea the room recedes to taller talk Of what someone said then -- or when? -- you turn And ask you wife, who tells you definitely, gently. "Well, anyway, he said to me..." you begin again. I think of how your talk and writing differ, The one so soft, dissolving scene into scene; The other clear, concise, alive with light Of Ireland on her most vagrant summer days. I think of your art of giving life to language: >From graft with older wood a strong new tree. A gift like your kingfisher, "seldom seen," Its bright blue arrowing from present to future. Reminded of time, I rise to leave; you stop Reluctantly, though such talk must tire. You come to the door, invite me again, wave And return to living these your youngest years. -- Richard Weber (born 1932)