Work Horses

entry picture

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, Reading and Philadelphia –

for worklessness

would have been defining shame.


And somewhere in the hinterland

of just remembered childhood

I am watching a drayman

as he guides heraldic horses

through a time-thinned stream of traffic.

Their sinews barely tensed,

they go unfussed about their business.





◄ Ascendants

Montesqieu ►


Profile image


Wed 16th Sep 2020 17:51

It's almost an honour now to read poetry that is not about endless self seeking. You don't really need my affirmation David, but it might give some cause. A love piece, showing some consideration to those who lived their lives the only way they knew how.


If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message