Louis MacNiece

                                   , you are dead.
Loius MacNeice, I can’t believe it.

Bee-hives buzzing with verses of yours
Are very much at home in my library.

We have nothing in common
Apart from one thing perhaps –

Both infrequent tourists in the countries of our birth,
Both eternal immigrants in the counties of our choice.

I came from too far for you to reflect on, yet
Your words seem tailored for me as if a wedding suit.

Luis MacNeice, so far I do not care much
For what happens to us after we die

So won’t go to Carrowdore or lose sleep over your diary.
I just endlessly read your Snow, unable to conceive your being