Later I’d understand how it put
the Atlantic west of them
again, kept places where scraggly grass
prevented the stones from ganging up
the way they did in Boston. On the top
rear porch of a triple-decker,
it tied them to whitewashed farmsteads
splashed with slurry, cowprints
baked in mud by the blue summer air.
All through the distant thwack and roar
of baseball at Glendale Park,
the Saccos voluble at their supper
next door, it ran like water
steady a thousand years from a limestone
lip, plaited itself through bogs
that absorbed roadsigns in English,
ran with watery sunlight after days
of rain. How Anna McCarron rejected
Donal Rua and he went out to Australia;
how a bachelor’s money is never lucky.
Time left them to themselves,
left them themselves celebrating
an outlaw tongue. I stood at the twilit
meeting of their knees and voices,
wondering if it meant some failing in me.
HEARING IRISH SPOKEN
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