AVOCA, CO. WICKLOW Step down from the bridge. A spit of grass points At the confluence. Tree he sat beneath Spoiled for souvenirs, Looks numb as driftwood. A pretty fellow In stone broods over The meeting waters. His words came alive But the music's flow, Like weeds in water. I recall my aunt, my second mother, Singing Tom Moore at the old rectory Harmonium -- "The Last Rose of Summer," "She is Far from the Land" -- her contralto Scoop, the breathy organ, an oil lamp lit. Words and tune met, flowed together in one Melodious river. I drift calmly Between its banks. Sweet vale of Avoca, She is still young, I a child, and our two Hearts like thy waters are mingled in peace. Dublin tradesman's son, Byron's friend, the pet of Whig drawing-rooms. Feted everywhere Everywhere at home, He sang of exile. And death, tailoring Country airs to a Modish elegance. Let the waters jig In a light glitter, So the source run full. -- C. Day-Lewis, Anglo-Irish Poet Laureate of England