Sweeney Redivivus by Seamus Heaney
I stirred wet sand and gathered myself
to climb the steep-flanked mound,
my head like a ball of wet twine
dense with soakage, but beginning
was blowing off the river, bitter
as night airs in a scutch mill.
The old trees were nowhere,
the hedges thin as penwork
and the whole enclosure lost
under hard paths and sharp-ridged houses.
And there I was, incredible to myself,
among people far too eager to believe me
and my story, even if it happened to be true.