Shannon Airport Cafe Poem by Pat Jourdan

The woman in the airport cafe
is doing nothing special;
she is saving the world.
The woman is nothing special;
she has a label on her back,
"Aid Worker for Chernobyl" -
not a charity shop cast-off,
the real thing.
The men at the airport
are smoking their only European cigarettes
as they cluster behind glass in the rain.
May - a sharp quick Irish rainstorm
and then back to the calm of rooks' calls again.
Last rain lashes down from the bus shelter.

The soldiers remain behind glass
in that special camouflage, beige, tan and green,
the colour of olives ripening in heat.
Young men being strong and stupid,
dedicated and devout; airlifted.
And in the airport cafe
an ordinary woman sits
waiting for a plane to Chernobyl
to pick up stray emotional bits.
The airport is strictly segregated -
the two types cannot mix
except in these marks I make
in the quiet Shannon rain.