Exile

What ground is mine
If I would govern myself?
Where is my country
If neither bogs nor gantries
Speak of me?
Where can I stand
If I am not one thing,
Or the other?

My grandfather knew where he stood.
Ancestors planted his feet
In fertile soil, green futures were
Named in his name, possessed.
He preached their flinty faith
In mission tents, visions of eternal life
On soft Ulster evenings,

But there was no redemption.
Not in the land, or through the Blood.
Not in the hard lessons of duty, obedience,
With which he marked his children.

He is stripped of virtue,
His legacy a stone
Of no magic, no transcendence.
No children ever turn to swans,
Wafer remains wafer on the tongue,
And flesh is always flesh.

My two white birds will bring me
Water from the mountains,
Beakfuls of sweet sips.
I will grow a new tongue,
Paint my body with circles
And symbols of strength, mark myself
As one who belongs in the desert.