Bellaghy (Bell-ack-ee), on the shore of Lough Neagh, (Lock Nay) is a bleak part of Northern Ireland, sectarian scarred. Unyielding to most, I feel sure this earth will welcome Seamus, and his oak coffin will cradle him. It seems fitting that the poet who wrote so warmly of wood, and bog and loam should spend eternity cuddled by the land he loved. Most people on their way to Magherafelt (Mack-erra-felt), Portglenone (Port-glen-own) and Toome (Tomb) will see flat land, low mist and grey light. Below, Seamus will lie in a bath of alluvial gold.
All of us who are Irish and like to write will have to work harder now , to try to fill the gap. I have posted Seamus’ poems here before but will not today. If you want to read them, buy the book. The man leaves a wife and family.