The Fisherman by William Butler Yeats

Day 5 construction was put on hold for the afternoon, due to the high winds and rain.  Even though it is summer, one can see why the Romans named Ireland Hibernia for the Latin word for winter (like the French hiver).

So, the group is now hibernating back at their respective B&Bs...it is a perfect afternoon to sit by a peat fire and curl up with a little dog named Precious, a cup of tea, and a book of poetry.  Here is an appropriate selection for our island, since fishing is so important...by local man W.B Yeats, and written about 100 years ago, but as relevant for our time as for his:

The Fisherman

BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

Although I can see him still—

The freckled man who goes

To a gray place on a hill

In gray Connemara clothes

At dawn to cast his flies—

It's long since I began

To call up to the eyes

This wise and simple man.   

All day I'd looked in the face   

What I had hoped it would be   

To write for my own race   

And the reality:   

The living men that I hate,   

The dead man that I loved,   

The craven man in his seat,   

The insolent unreproved—

And no knave brought to book   

Who has won a drunken cheer—

The witty man and his joke   

Aimed at the commonest ear,   

The clever man who cries   

The catch cries of the clown,   

The beating down of the wise   

And great Art beaten down.

Maybe a twelve-month since

Suddenly I began,

In scorn of this audience,

Imagining a man,

And his sun-freckled face

And gray Connemara cloth,

Climbing up to a place

Where stone is dark with froth,

And the down turn of his wrist

When the flies drop in the stream—

A man who does not exist,   

A man who is but a dream;   

And cried, “Before I am old   

I shall have written him one   

Poem maybe as cold   

And passionate as the dawn.”

Source: Poetry (February 1916).