Thursday, August 2, 2007


We drove into Kiltimagh
On one Saturday in June.
It was half past three o’clock
On a glowing afternoon.
On a burning summer’s day,
Such as only comes too rare,
As the flies buzzed round in play
And the cats sprawled in the glare.

Tired and sticky from the drive
From the suburbs in the east,
Baking sun could not deprive
Us of our literary feast,
Where blind Raftery wrote song
Of the hedgerows of his youth
As he tapped his way along
In pursuit of rhyme and truth.

There we bathed in crystal streams
Of bright metaphor and verse,
Deep-submerged in babbling dreams
That the sun could not disperse.
Image washed away the grime
Of the sticky, prickly heat,
In a shower so sublime,
Drops of poetry so sweet.

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