The Ghost of An Gorta Mór
An Gorta Mór – The Great Famine
When I say weekends must be the worst,
feel peopled-out by the end of Sunday,
you shift over on the churchyard bench
and I sit to eat day-old pizza.
Rolling up your loose grimy sleeves,
you sift through your daily bounty:
the bleached bones of dead birds,
decaying roses, out of date bulletins,
point to a book you’ve found,
One Hundred Fun Facts: Grown by Incas,
potatoes originated in Peru.
Is that where you’re off to? I say
as you rise to go through the cemetery gate.
When you nod soil falls from your hair
and I watch as you walk away with that
no-shoe-shuffle you’ve perfected.
