In the middle of a field the Irish are so fond of:
Something like a spiral in the burnt grass.
Someone held my arm in a grip of steel,
Stopping me from walking further or from following
The rings within the bigger rings and beyond them
To the mountains that ringed the rings and needed no more name.
Two women in white were walking arm in arm through the
Burnt yellow grass, tall slender women as from before the Great War,
Long muslin columnar dresses, gloves, large veiled hats, graceful women
Who had been raised in grace and had known not what abuse
And so were the gladder to talk to each other undisturbed,
As if the yellow grass were the sands of the sea of the beach at Skansen
And I the red setting sun, I not luminous but a red path
Over the lapping waters that, too, did not wish to disturb them.
Sisters? I thought. Mother and daughter, finely grown?
Something in myself that I’d never seen and that the spiral showed,
Which is why I was stopped from following? Can we have,
Inside our thick blind ox-like brutal wrestlers’ ribs,
Something so bridal as this? I think it is so,
Doctor, my dear. You throw us off our motorbikes
As you did Lawrence of Arabia and for one second only
We see the real macadam.