Give Me An Hour Poem by Seán O Muiríosa

The two cross the road customary-like
On the path to a chat, mysterious-hike,
The night is black, warm for January.

The hour in the bar is quietly contemplating
Two young men deep in conversation,
Drinks are ordered, familiar door opened.

The telling of their weeks is thrilling
Like poets unleashing the exhilarating
Truth out of a deep well of the ordinary.

Scenes are told, dramas played out
In the eyes and movements of hands and mouth,
Conversation to pint, lightning inspired.

Shakespeare surely recorded such times,
Bishop may have painted them – lines,
A vast canvas of words.

In the little pub in the little town,
These are the words, the moments
That make the sun seem bright, the moon a likeable friend

Even when clouds whirl and cover
These are the times that so clearly exist
Only here, somewhere only they know

In the little town under the hill hours exist
Intermittently
And matter.