Who is my father in this world, in this house,
At the spirit's base?

My father's father, his father's father, his--
Shadows like winds.

Go back to a parent before thought, before speech,
At the head of the past.

They go to the cliffs of Moher rising out the mist,
Above the real

Rising out of present time and place, above
The wet, green grass.

This is not landscape, full of the somnambulations Of Poetry
And the sea.

This is my father or, maybe,
It is as he was,

A likeness, one of the race of fathers: earth
And sea and air.

The Irish Cliffs Of Moher