I never met his speakeasy uncle who left us all behind
but I played O’Neill’s lament and ran poor racehorses
I didn’t know him when I loved Montague’s grand niece
Walking from the broad road up over Garvaghey hill
Why should I feel this uagineas in my heart?
For a man who was Godfather to a stranger
Who as I, hungered for the smell of horse sweat
and tired with the feel of sticky rosin
Was I to know when I watched Walter hunched under the bale?
that strange succession had passed into my hand
Montague, I never knew, but seen his driptych chucky at the PO window
My fiddle is teetering on the nail, succession to drop elsewhere.
Succession recognisable only in loss as in love!
How sneakily that succession came, and ghostly it passes.
I envy the soul who tunnelled to run the speakeasy
My red face and thyroid eyes gained only from frustration
PG June 09
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem