Published as a handmade book in a limited edition in Co Donegal by Ballagh Studio.

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He is poise, trapped in the forelock of a wave;
He is balance, entombed between tremblings.

He is wisdom, buried in the black eye
Of a winter’s bog-hole; he is silence.

He is what fleetness is: not quicksilver
Nor lightning; he is falling water.

He is endurance, veined in rock;
His spirit is all muscle, and thew;
It is all sinew, woven in the clotted heart of old oak.

He is anger, he is disdain, he is impatience;
His mind is a closed book.

He is nobility; he is beyond touch;
He is distance; the night sky is his estate;
He occupies the height of it,
He occupies the width of it.

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