Home
to Roost
He roared his Puch to the ceili in
Clontibret,
His fiddle and bow packed with care in a
black case.
The pub-snug talk was of scandal in high
places;
There was levity in their delight in
downfall;
Fiddlers talked a word statue for Seamus
Ennis;
He was always crucified higher than the
thieves;
Someone passed round a thumb lost to the
wood-mill blade;
Luke cocked his ear bar-close to hear what
tunes had wings;
He hated silage and battery-hen producers;
He liked to taste hay in beef and eat soda
bread;
Once in the door home he cooked beef in the
oven,
And gave his mother a plated juicy portion.
It was the darkest time before dawn but she
ate,
Even though she was fading fast before his
eyes;
Between silences they’d wring out the
residue
of truth from the pose and posture of the
past day;
The day through like water under the canal
bridge,
She could go to bed knowing he was home to
roost.
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