wet fingernails
floated on his thick spun hands
mouth corners like
dried cheese curds
as he clasped the wooden side
of the six-thirty
heaving on the waves
from Bofin to Ballinasloe
hands that held
the black and white
collar of pints sunk
in Gullane’s
to sink the sight of the priest
who banished his Fear
he thinks of evenings out
before lockdown
and a male orderly
from town
tapping his beer mat
to the counter
for attention
while
the poet only heard
old sounds:
a tinker tethering his mare
as the horse fair clattered
ah sure indeed Teddy
your head will be well
when the turf is stacked in the shed
and we’ve stopped your sweating
Read Elaine Feeney’s ‘Behind the poem’ article on this poem