Sloe Gin
--Seamus Heaney 

The clear weather of juniper
darkened into winter.
She fed gin to sloes
and sealed the glass container. 

When I unscrewed it
I smelled the disturbed
tart stillness of a bush
rising through the pantry. 

When I poured it
it had a cutting edge
and flamed
like Betelgeuse. 

I drink to you
in smoke-mirled, blue-
black sloes, bitter
and dependable.

I read once how John Ashbery compares poetry to eating one's daily vegetables. I much prefer Heaney's muse.