Suibhne Is Wounded, and Confesses

There was a time when I thought
the sound of a dove cooing and flitting
over a pond was sweeter than the voices

of friends. There was a time when
I preferred the blackbird and the boom
of a stag belling in a storm. I used to think

that the chanting of the mountain-grouse
at dawn had more music than your voice,
but things are different now. Still,

it would be hard to say I wouldn’t rather
live above the bright lake, and eat watercress
in the wood, and be away from sorrow.