All day
just
him
and me
pints
and
stories
giddied up
the craic.
The afternoon ran away
too soon.
A fading straggle
watched
us unravel
into
evening
and
on
into
town.
Where
he
accepted
another
and
refused
to watch
the sun
going
down.
Kept himself
in
good order.
Oil slicked hair
crisp white shirt
dimming sparklers
eyeing the skirts.
As if he were
full
of
the cardiac
lull.
Straight backed
Standing firm
trouble
“I can’t abide those hunched gossips, with their hubble bubble.”
“Whispering reeds on a riverbank.”
Forever a foreigner among them.
“A row with no end
ties itself around itself.”
As we take the air
he sings rebel songs
that saw him
through
the age
of births
and other
tough times.
“Oh,me uncle Mick he had a big stick and he was out for slaughter…”
Searching in vain for fatherly fond words
for a son
or
a daughter.
More pints and stories
of
fine girls
and
black curls
of
Black and
Tans
and
also
rans.
A long-nursed
rage
from another
age.
Strong words
between him
and
me
and
the Irish
Sea.
“Ah, sure you’ll never go back.”
The destiny of a private man.
The gravity of memorial.
The grace of recollection.
His funeral filled the road.
So, it had come to this.
Just him and me.
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