The clanking compound of the brewery
– where Dad did casual shifts
when building work was scarce –
is buried now beneath the floors
of a multi-storey car park
and chat that drifts across
from cappuccino pavements.
Born to a scant inheritance
of rushy Sligo acres, my dad was bred
like his brothers to follow the work,
sending remittances home
from London, Readin...
Thursday 8th April 2021 10:32 am
The closest my dad ever got to poetry
was when he savoured some word
like pugilist, or the tip-toe springiness
he sensed in bob and weave,
his unalloyed delight in the flytings
and eyeball-to-eyeball hype
that went with big fight weigh-ins.
And maybe I should have been
a contender, when I did my stint
in the ring, my dad convinced
I had style and the stamp of a w...
Wednesday 7th April 2021 11:03 am