Anahorish, by Thomas Kleinert
I like this poem by Seamus Heaney very much, how it speaks of a certain place, both geographical and mythical, and I love what Lisa Hannigan and friends make of it with their voices.
My “place of clear water”,
the first hill in the world
where springs washed into
the shiny grass
and darkened cobbles
in the bed of the lane.
Anahorish, soft gradient
of consonant, vowel-meadow,
after-image of lamps
swung through the yards
on winter evenings.
With pails and barrows
those mound-dwellers
go waist-deep in mist
to break the light ice
at wells and dunghills.