Poemas

Fleadh Fiddler
The peeling paint no longer masks
The eroding hands of time
Stealing the fiddle from 
Fiddlers forgotten after the Fleadh 
No songs are sung on silent streets 
Not even ghosts here stop to meet
Outside public houses still surviving 
On last year’s plastic servings 
To revellers who failed to notice notes
Flowing freely from the master’s hand
In the doorway a master of music;
Dionysus or Mammon?
Now like Nagasaki’s shadows
The partial image is a reminder 
Of explosions that occurred
Their lasting legacy unclear.