Old Ireland
It seems a thousand years ago now: tires swish by on the road
And the woody pong of dad’s old pipe salts the rainy air.
My head throbs with the burden of recalling
The succulence of rashers on a bell-loud Sunday
And the scalding sweetness of overmilked tea
And the crumbling crumbiness of Mum’s soda bread
And fried eggs hot from the pan.
I loved them all then
But never knew.
Recalling too the throat-catch of my own first smoke (a
Regal),
Behind the bus stop on the Portrush Road
One windy day when I was young
On my face the sifting October air
And underfoot autumn's shushing leaves.
And me overhearing the girls all whispering and giggling,
"Do ye see him
now do ye see."
(Only now, too late, I know:
'Twas all about
me.)
Now I savor the musty maltiness of a Bushmill’s Black
Early Saturday night down at McCarthy’s Bar,
Where laughter explodes inside sporadic talk
And the peace is catching on.
But at heart it’s with us still,
It hangs onto every spoken word,
That old Ireland they say is dead and gone,
The old sow eating her farrow,
The past that doesn't die.
