Troubadours
On an oil sheet that hummed of bog,
we watch for the tide to be right and
the fires on Spike Island to cease.
In the corner shop we scrounged bread and cheese
and were told the ‘the borstal boys had been busy again’.
So waiting for relief from the relief
of the Southferry road I sat under
the wide sky of Ringaskiddy exposed
to the gaze of passing motorists, uniforms
and other gawkers amusing a bitter scallion
My fellow penniless wanderer joined the free library
and returned with a copy of ‘Death of a Naturalist’,
which we took turns at reading aloud
to fill the time and that of other idlers.
At the same time a bomb stopped
a ticking clock in the North.
Grimbeau 