| I | |
| | |
| He would drink by himself | |
| And raise a weathered thumb | |
| Towards the high shelf, | |
| Calling another rum | |
| And blackcurrant, without | 5 |
| 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; | 10 |
| At closing time would go | |
| In waders and peaked cap | |
| Into the showery dark, | |
| A dole-kept breadwinner | |
| But a natural for work. | 15 |
| I loved his whole manner, | |
| Sure-footed but too sly, | |
| His deadpan sidling tact, | |
| His fisherman’s quick eye | |
| And turned observant back. | 20 |
| | |
| Incomprehensible | |
| To him, my other life. | |
| Sometimes, on the high stool, | |
| Too busy with his knife | |
| At a tobacco plug | 25 |
| And not meeting my eye, | |
| In the pause after a slug | |
| He mentioned poetry. | |
| We would be on our own | |
| And, always politic | 30 |
| 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. | 35 |
| | |
| But my tentative art | |
| His turned back watches too: | |
| He was blown to bits | |
| Out drinking in a curfew | |
| Others obeyed, three nights | 40 |
| After they shot dead | |
| The thirteen men in Derry. | |
| PARAS THIRTEEN, the walls said, | |
| BOGSIDE NIL. That Wednesday | |
| Everyone held | 45 |
| His breath and trembled. | |
| | |
| II | |
| | |
| It was a day of cold | |
| Raw silence, wind-blown | |
| surplice and soutane: | |
| Rained-on, flower-laden | 50 |
| Coffin after coffin | |
| Seemed to float from the door | |
| Of the packed cathedral | |
| Like blossoms on slow water. | |
| The common funeral | 55 |
| Unrolled its swaddling band, | |
| Lapping, tightening | |
| Till we were braced and bound | |
| Like brothers in a ring. | |
| | |
| But he would not be held | 60 |
| 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, | 65 |
| Remorse fused with terror | |
| In his still knowable face, | |
| His cornered outfaced stare | |
| Blinding in the flash. | |
| | |
| He had gone miles away | 70 |
| For he drank like a fish | |
| Nightly, naturally | |
| Swimming towards the lure | |
| Of warm lit-up places, | |
| The blurred mesh and murmur | 75 |
| Drifting among glasses | |
| In the gregarious smoke. | |
| How culpable was he | |
| That last night when he broke | |
| Our tribe’s complicity? | 80 |
| ‘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, | 85 |
| Those quiet walkers | |
| And sideways talkers | |
| Shoaling out of his lane | |
| To the respectable | |
| Purring of the hearse... | 90 |
| They move in equal pace | |
| With the habitual | |
| Slow consolation | |
| Of a dawdling engine, | |
| The line lifted, hand | 95 |
| Over fist, cold sunshine | |
| On the water, the land | |
| Banked under fog: that morning | |
| I was taken in his boat, | |
| The Screw purling, turning | 100 |
| Indolent fathoms white, | |
| I tasted freedom with him. | |
| To get out early, haul | |
| Steadily off the bottom, | |
| Dispraise the catch, and smile | 105 |
| As you find a rhythm | |
| Working you, slow mile by mile, | |
| Into your proper haunt | |
| Somewhere, well out, beyond... | |
| | |
| Dawn-sniffing revenant, | 110 |
| Plodder through midnight rain, | |
| Question me again. | |