On the road to Maccan on the train as it ran 
I sat by the side of a shanachie man. 
He wore a black cloak and a black hat too, 
But the cloak couldn't hide the doublet of blue 
Nor the black hat cover the curls of the lover.

Deep in the sky of his ice-blue eye 
The old desire, the fir-bolg fire,
Burned like a low insistent sun, 
Burned like a dream and a dream undone.

Shanachie to the oldest clan, 
He had tuned his heart to the tale of man, 
He had tightened his art to the terrible story 
Of man's dark glory.

Blood-lit ages seemed to glide 
Shadowed in old Fundy's tide 
Under the span of the track that ran 
Crossing the dyke on the road to Maccan
 As his voice rang out to the ring of the train, 
As the wheels of the train rang out in his song. 
  'Love is tender and ever so long, 
  Love is tender and love is strong.'

I knew that creed: it sleeps in the seed 
And shapes each note in the rainbird's throat; 
But out of a man I never knew 
It could stand so easy and sound so true: 
'Law 'gets law to a mountain growing, 
Love 'gets love to a fountain flowing. 
A level and plumb and a hod of bricks 
For a prison wall! But the crucifix will topple it all, 
For love is a laugh and an easy nod 
And a kick of the heel at the empty hod. 
Mason's tools for a prison wall! 
But the aspen tree will topple it all, 
For law 'gets law to a mountain growing 
Love 'gets love to a fountain flowing.'

The sound of his talk had a rhythm as free 
As the roar and the rock of the trucks in their glee 
Pounding a trestle skirting the sea.

A house, a road, a steepled town, 
With screeching brakes the train 
Slowed 
Down.
The brakeman's call seemed far away, 
The echoes call of yesterday. 
Silence
Pearled by a ghostly bell. 
Silence under a thick white spell.

The tide went shouldering into the night 
And the tide's red furrows were flecked with foam,
His eyes were the smoke of a windblown light 
For a long-gone traveller's welcome home. 
The sky rolled down in a heavy shroud 
And the man spoke softly into the cloud: 
'Dreaming through what storm of dust, 
Whirling fire and granite thrust, 
Dreaming through what slippery climb 
Out of the swamp, clear of the slime, 
Dreamer of the fronded palm 
Bending in a slow salaam, 
Helpless heaviness in the sloth, 
Dusty delicacy in the moth! 
Haunter of hill and stone and stream 
Troubler of lknaton's dream, 
Sword of Agamemmon's woe, 
Brush of Fra Angetico, 
Pulse of Robert Burn's pen! 
Hail! and hail! and hail again!'

His words were just spoken when snow like a token 
Burst on the air and a bondage was broken. 
We lunged, jolted, staggered and ran 
Rattle and tear on the road to Maccan. 
Rivers of wire went over and under, over and under, over and under. 
A heart could ache, break, break with the burden of wonder.

The train-whistle's moan fled seeking its own 
Through the darkness of whiteness, the myriad alone. 
His eyes drew in and away and far 
Till their light was a thin pale star. 
His hands were pleading for his words 
And his fingers shook like frightened birds. 
He said: 'Do you hear in the silence of snow, 
Do you see in the desolate beauty of snow 
The will of the world to be rid of its fear 
In a fathoming eye, in a listening ear? 
I have, I have felt the soul of this other 
Who talks to himself in his shanachie brother. 
See the blizzards of diadems flung on the air 
To fall or to fly or to catch in your hair 
Each in its moment to hang in the sky 
A signal of beauty that never shall die, 
Each singular flake from his feverish art 
His precious, his treasure, his darling of heart.
 0! Savage he scatters his work on the air, 
But ever more passionate, ever more fair 
He tumbles creation up out of its lair 
Till proudly it moves in the land, in the sea, 
And proudly it echoes in you and in me;
For your pulse is the thunder and pound of the shoes 
Of memories old as the primeval ooze. 
They ride in your hand, in your eye, in your lip, 
With a call and a cry and a lure and a whip, 
Their shadowy cavalry deep in your bone, 
Milleniums riding, they cannot be thrown!'

A lover of life in its uttermost span 
And a teller of tales was the shanachie man. 
He dealt in a logic unknown to the schools, 
He spoke in the language of children and fools, 
Choosing rather to drink from a cool running stream, 
Than to thirst in pursuit of some rational scheme, 
Some arrogant thought that would tie in a knot 
Life's beauty and truth in its masterful plot. 
His parable keen was a knife that cut clean 
Through this tangle and twist to the pattern unseen, 
To the banner unfurled at the heart of the world.