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 –
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.