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Sandstone Keepsake
by
Seamus Heaney
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It is a kind of chalky russet solidified gourd, sedimentary and so reliable dense and bricky I often clasp it and throw it from hand to hand. It was ruddier, with an underwater hint of contusion, when I lifted it, wading a shingle beach at Inishowen. Across the estuary light after light came on silently round the perimeter of the camp. A stone from Phlegethon, bloodied on the bed of hell's hot river? Evening frost and the salt water made my hand smoke, as if I'd plucked the heart that damned Guy de Montfort to the boiling flood - but not really, though I remembered his victim's heart in its casket, long venerated. Anyhow, there I was with the wet red stone in my hand, staring across at the watch-towers from my free state of image and allusion, swooped on, then dropped by trained binoculars: a silhouette not worth bothering about, out for the evening in scarf and waders and not about to set times wrong and right, stooping along, one of the venerators.
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