Exhibited at Through the Green Fuse at LOT Projects, London 2023
When I lie on the ground
I rise flushed as a rose in the morning.
In flights I arrange a fall on the ring
To rub myself with sand
That is operative
As an elixir. I cannot be weaned
Off the earth’s long contour, her river-veins.
Down here in my cave
Girdered with root and rock
I am cradled in the dark that wombed me
And nurtured in every artery
Like a small hillock.
Let each new hero come
Seeking the golden apples and Atlas.
He must wrestle with me before pass
Into that realm of fame
Among sky-born and royal:
He may well throw me and renew my birth
But let him not plan, lifting me off the earth,
My elevation, my fall.
— Seamus Heaney