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Heaney's late collection of poetry, Electric Light is a playful mix of mythology, memory and impish punchline. By the time he wrote it he was already a Nobel laureate and well recognised as a master of his craft, so the playful silliness is particularly welcome. The brilliant The Fragment is a perfect synecdoche for the whole collection. Some of the longer poems (like Sonnets from Hellas) went a little over my head, but the rhythm was enjoyable. In the end, it was hard to decipher what Heaney was aiming at. Was he creating myth from his own childhood? Or just playing? It probably doesn't matter, as most of the poems stand up on their own.