It almost seems irrelevant to write a review of this book. I mean, Seamus Heaney can’t get any better known or loved by me saying *I love this book*.

But I do. Just as I am stirred by his words, his perceptions, his way of capturing a thought or juxtaposing two things I would never think to put together (and no, I'm not carried off by every single one of these 100 poems, but by many, *many*, I am), I am also grateful to him. For his honesty, his vulnerability, his tenderness for selves and technologies and humans and leafy spaces that no longer are or are not yet, as in a poem to his toddler grandchild in later years. He has room for all of these in him, and I recognise my own complexity reflected in his, and am grateful for this gentle companion in life. ( )

"...So if, my dear, there sometimes seem to be
Old bridges breaking between you and me,
Never fear. We may let the scaffolds fall,
Confident that we have built our wall."
("Scaffolding," p. 13)

"We have no prairies
To slice a big sun at evening -
Everywhere the eye concedes to
Encroaching horizon..."
("Bogland," p. 20)

"Yet for all this art and sedentary trade
I am incapable. The famous
Northern reticence, the tight gag of place
And times...
Where to be saved you only must save face
And whatever you say, you say nothing.
...
O land of password, handgrip, wink and nod,
Of open minds as open as a trap..."
(from "Whatever You Say Say Nothing," p. 43-44)

"And that moment when the bird sings very close
To the music of what happens."
("Song," p. 73) ( )