What dreams are absolutely made of, hungry appetites, a relatively unmatched and savoured sprightliness about him, truth told, he was most probably second to none
Knew what it was he would need to do, read ’til leaving himself perfectly diluted, blue in the face, to forsake all of the begrudgers, be his own sole judge
It would, of course, take a little time, for each and every one of his concentrated poems, sliding lines smirking through rather cheeky rhyme to reach the right kind of people, finally place him atop that all too desperately sought after poetic steeple
Heaney did it, kept his wayward wits about him, rode on through what would always turn out to be both the thick and the thin, way his eyes saw fit that finish-line was only ever going to end in something of a win-win
He had his words, his very own justifiable sword, and an unnatural ability to pick himself up time again, bite back at them all the more pure, with a crazily overactive, imaginative quality