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I'm philosophically interested in this book, and poetically I guess. I feel like I need to read it again, and then read all of Heaney's other poetry before I can say to much about it. I love the poem "Lupins"; and I'm partial to another poem in here about playing soccer, which is a loose analogy for writing poetry - what else. I've been interested in the way that the task of writing poetry, and thinking about writing poetry has taken over the writing of poetry. Most contemporary poetry is about writing poetry. Ondaatje, and every amateur poet in Canada has this disease. I like a little less of it then I get, but hey.