Seamus Heaney

Cut from the green hedge a forked hazel stick

That he held tight by the arms of the V：

Circling the terrain¹， hunting the pluck

Of water， nervous， but professionally

Unfussed. The pluck came sharp as a sting.

The rod jerked with precise convulsions.

Spring water suddenly broadcasting

Through a green hazel its secret stations.

The bystanders would ask to have a try.

He handed them the rod without a word.

It lay dead in their grasp till， nonchalantly，

He gripped expectant wrists. The hazel stirred.