Copyright © 2012 Richard P. Nixon All Rights Reserved.
BALLYGAWLEY FAIR DAY MEMORY November 1939
Hunched in the rain
the old tin-whistle man
shakes his cloth cap in
outstretched shivering hand
as dusk’s gray threads
clothe Courthouse cornerstone
and Fair Day merchants
drive their bargains home
with spit and slapping palms
and shouts of “Done!”
-- now all have passed him by
urging their cattle on
with blackthorn sticks
and epithets and song
tears ooze like sweat from
the thin tin-whistle man
and inch, like sap
from a eucalyptus tree
bleeding from old scars split
by Spring’s upsurgery.
Hunched in the rain
the old tin-whistle man
shakes his cloth cap in
outstretched shivering hand
as dusk’s gray threads
clothe Courthouse cornerstone
and Fair Day merchants
drive their bargains home
with spit and slapping palms
and shouts of “Done!”
-- now all have passed him by
urging their cattle on
with blackthorn sticks
and epithets and song
tears ooze like sweat from
the thin tin-whistle man
and inch, like sap
from a eucalyptus tree
bleeding from old scars split
by Spring’s upsurgery.
