Your thermometer
Splintering in roiling heat.
I keep my head cool.
Fierce heat from the sun
These High Alps groan; they’re boiling.
Could we stop marching ?
( tairseach an Fhéin
is ea an uile ní –
fothracha )
No! everything
is a portal for the Self –
How shore these ruins ?
The Poet slips in
Through his own portal. No self.
Nothing. No language.
Immense static light
Beamed down on Ungaretti
Healing the hot self
Unwind the onion
All our healthy, ruined selves
Am I Buddha’s portal ?
( Fróinsias As Pratoleva…. ‘ Sea ! 2012 )