-
- He would drink by himself
- And raise a weathered thumb
- Towards the high shelf,
- Calling another rum
- And blackcurrant, without
- Having to raise his voice,
- Or order a quick stout
- By a lifting of the eyes
- And a discreet dumb-show
- Of pulling off the top;
- At closing time would go
- In waders and peaked cap
- Into the showery dark,
- A dole-kept breadwinner
- But a natural for work.
- I loved his whole manner,
- Sure-footed but too sly,
- His deadpan sidling tact,
- His fisherman's quick eye
- And turned observant back.
- Incomprehensible
- To him, my other life.
- Sometimes on the high stool,
- Too busy with his knife
- At a tobacco plug
- And not meeting my eye,
- In the pause after a slug
- He mentioned poetry.
- We would be on our own
- And, always politic
- And shy of condescension,
- I would manage by some trick
- To switch the talk to eels
- Or lore of the horse and cart
- Or the Provisionals.
- But my tentative art
- His turned back watches too:
- He was blown to bits
- Out drinking in a curfew
- Others obeyed, three nights
- After they shot dead
- The thirteen men in Derry.
- PARAS THIRTEEN, the walls said,
- BOGSIDE NIL. That Wednesday
- Everyone held
- His breath and trembled.
- II
- It was a day of cold
- Raw silence, wind-blown
- Surplice and soutane:
- Rained-on, flower-laden
- Coffin after coffin
- Seemed to float from the door
- Of the packed cathedral
- Like blossoms on slow water.
- The common funeral
- Unrolled its swaddling band,
- Lapping, tightening
- Till we were braced and bound
- Like brothers in a ring.
- But he would not be held
- At home by his own crowd
- Whatever threats were phoned,
- Whatever black flags waved.
- I see him as he turned
- In that bombed offending place,
- Remorse fused with terror
- In his still knowable face,
- His cornered outfaced stare
- Blinding in the flash.
- He had gone miles away
- For he drank like a fish
- Nightly, naturally
- Swimming towards the lure
- Of warm lit-up places,
- The blurred mesh and murmur
- Drifting among glasses
- In the gregarious smoke.
- How culpable was he
- That last night when he broke
- Our tribe's complicity?
- 'Now, you're supposed to be
- An educated man,'
- I hear him say. 'Puzzle me
- The right answer to that one.'
- III
- I missed his funeral,
- Those quiet walkers
- And sideways talkers
- Shoaling out of his lane
- To the respectable
- Purring of the hearse ...
- They move in equal pace
- With the habitual
- Slow consolation
- Of a dawdling engine,
- The line lifted, hand
- Over fist, cold sunshine
- On the water, the land
- Banked under fog: that morning
- I was taken in his boat,
- The screw purling, turning
- Indolent fathoms white,
- I tasted freedom with him.
- To get out early, haul
- Steadily off the bottom,
- Dispraise the catch, and smile
- As you find a rhythm
- Working you, slow mile by mile,
- Into your proper haunt
- Somewhere, well out, beyond ...
- Dawn-sniffing revenant,
- Plodder through midnight rain,
- Question me again.
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