Beula

When did I start crying, was it going back to Ireland, or when my son asked why, Nana loved the horses, you who poured sand, over that turfed cours, on the ferry, kids playing, silver light across the strand, I lay at anchor becalmed, you the daddy retort, we’ve run aground, are we together any more, to say Ma was a slave, a house always crammed, a martyr to his venerable grace, all those holy orders, he asks if there’s a plan, in dust and troubled bother, but doesn’t give a damn.