twice as lazy as sick, like the man with the Swatragh fever
All that way, to come at the source of a saying –
A man in the corner of Shiel’s bar
Occupying his usual stool
And making conversation. Outside, a car
Through the rain, then nothing.
‘Tell me, son, what kind of school
Do you end up teaching in, with a bag like that?’
So full of books, so travelled
And so lost … As Shiel himself
Appears, with coffee and digestives,
Irish News, the good and evil
Of the world, there is some desultory chat
About a padlocked mart. ‘On Mondays, sheep,
On Tuesdays, cattle. Closed today –
On Thursdays, any stray
Unwanted horses wandering the roads…’
Everything here, from Swatragh to the Sperrins,
With its head in the clouds
Or dreamy as the depths of a healing well.
‘For sickness of the eyes…’
Says Shiel, tilting light in a glass.
In the News, a shooting. Outside, low grey skies
Thickening, like critical mass,
On a lonely drinker with a life to kill.
Harry Clifton’s most recent collection is Gone Self Storm (Bloodaxe)
All that way, to come at the source of a saying –
A man in the corner of Shiel’s bar
Occupying his usual stool
And making conversation. Outside, a car
Through the rain, then nothing.
‘Tell me, son, what kind of school
Do you end up teaching in, with a bag like that?’
So full of books, so travelled
And so lost … As Shiel himself
Appears, with coffee and digestives,
Irish News, the good and evil
Of the world, there is some desultory chat
About a padlocked mart. ‘On Mondays, sheep,
On Tuesdays, cattle. Closed today –
On Thursdays, any stray
Unwanted horses wandering the roads…’
Everything here, from Swatragh to the Sperrins,
With its head in the clouds
Or dreamy as the depths of a healing well.
‘For sickness of the eyes…’
Says Shiel, tilting light in a glass.
In the News, a shooting. Outside, low grey skies
Thickening, like critical mass,
On a lonely drinker with a life to kill.
Harry Clifton’s most recent collection is Gone Self Storm (Bloodaxe)
