by Peter Gallaher
We pass Bill Yeat’s grave
In the churchyard by the N 54
A thin ribbon of macadam
Leading into Sligo Town
Early on a Friday morning.
Beyond is bare Ben Bulben’s head
Brow turned to the west
Looking out to Knocknarea
Where Maebh and all her band
Wait, ready and still angry,
For the riders of the Red Hand.
They will never come.
They have left their home.
I have an hour, at most a little more,
To find my father’s father
In the twisted streets of this place
Of swifty-deep waters
Among tortured sheets of town lands
Lists of landlords living off their rents
And tenants living in a shed or so
Worth a shilling or so
So many many years ago
On the graves of their souls.
Then I must leave, forego finally
Knowing who he was and where.
If Ben Bulben matters or Maebh,
Wild queen of heroes and red bulls,
Means anything at all surely
I will be satisfied, I will find
That old man, dead so long,
I never met nor knew in person
As I know his spirit in me
Blood and laughter, laughter and blood
An arm for a friend and fist for a foe
The one and the other in free
And frequent exchange
Punctuated by the grammar of
Sadness and loss always
For what was stolen away or left behind
By the enemy of soul and mind.
No amount of sunshine
Or measure of success
In a new and golden Land
Erases or replaces that scrim of shame
Before the set on this stage
Unseen except when light is low
In the reading rooms of libraries
Where lists are kept and records show
Who bowed and bent, backed away
Or was sent screaming over the edge
Laughing beyond the sea
Falling into the West
Leaping beyond the East
And by the remnant who stayed
Never forgotten, yet never able
To return to the Sad Land
Behind Killybegs,
Beyond Ben Bulben’s head
Beneath the cairns of Knocknarea.
