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Another great collection of poetry from Heaney, built around the lengthy centrepiece ‘Station Island� (hence the title of the book, I guess). To be honest, I’m going to have to revisit this one in less stressful times, as I had trouble concentrating on this one enough to really give it the close inspection it deserves, thanks to some horrible stuff I have going on at the moment.

The following was my favourite in this collection, because it was so evocative of my mother, who used to do other people’s ironing for money when she was raising my brother and me on her own, back in the day. I should add that I never saw her spit on the iron, though.

Old Smoothing Iron

Often I watched her lift it
from where its compact wedge
rode the back of the stove
like a tug at anchor.

To test its heat by ear
she spat in its iron face
or held it up next to her cheek
to divine the stored danger.

Soft thumps on the ironing board.
Her dimpled angled elbow
and intent stoop
as she aimed the smoothing iron

like a plane into linen,
like the resentment of women.
To work, her dumb lunge says,
is to move a certain mass

through a certain distance,
is to pull your weight and feel
exact and equal to it.
Feel dragged upon. And buoyant.