Seamus Heaney

The tightness and the nilness round that space

when the car stops in the road， the troops inspect

its make and number and， as one bends his face

towards your window， you catch sight of more

on a hill beyond， eyeing with intent

down cradled guns that hold you under cover

and everything is pure interrogation

until a rifle motions and you move

with guarded unconcerned acceleration——

a little emptier， a little spent

as always by that quiver in the self，

subjugated¹， yes， and obedient.

So you drive on to the frontier of writing

where it happens again. The guns on tripods；

the sergeant² with his on-off mike repeating

data about you， waiting for the squawk

of clearance³； the marksman training down

out of the sun upon you like a hawk⁴.

And suddenly you're through， arraigned⁵ yet freed，

as if you'd passed from behind a waterfall

on the black current of a tarmac road

past armor-plated vehicles， out between

the posted soldiers flowing and receding⁶

like tree shadows into the polished windscreen.