IRISH BOYHOOD
County Cork, 1948
I’m the ghost of Josie Cronin,
a girl of sweet fourteen
She said ‘I want to see it.’
I answered ‘Keep it clean.’
‘Let me feel it’, she insisted,
‘I won’t do you any harm.’
I thought ‘Perhaps I’m stupid,’
but managed to stay calm.
I can see a Welsh pit pony
in that distant childhood field.
It had one ten times bigger,
but still I would not yield.
Another chance was wasted
that could have changed my life.
Imagine Josie Cronin
as a Flemish farmer’s wife!
WINTER SPARKS
Flying angels on the Burg
Tonight the angels dance for me,
a little Londoner of three
whose Mamma left him all alone
and showed him how to use the phone.
‘Ay! Ay! Ay! Pobre chico,
tu Paloma Blanca flew away.
Can you bear to stand and watch us,
hearts surrendered to the play?’
Angels can do anything,
They never make mistakes.
Mine gardens, sews & baths me
and bakes delicious cakes.
The Hall in which we married
has been illuminated.
Home James, the show is over
for which all Brugge waited.
BURG, 26 January 18.