West Shore

The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit 
By the earthed lightning of a flock of swans, 
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white, 
Their fully grown headstrong-looking heads 
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater. 
Useless to think you’ll park and capture it 
More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there, 
A hurry through which known and strange things pass 
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways 
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.

Seamus Heaney - ‘Postscript’