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PAT BORAN
Burgh Quay
 
   

H2is clothes so wet you’d think a child would know.
‘You never met him?’ I keep it bright. ‘That’s the man
who makes it rain.’ You are three or four,

and, as we file past the Garda van,
the ambulance and crew, the whispering crowd
conjured out of nowhere, your small hand 

stiffens inside mine, seems heavier, that human cloud
burst there on the footpath impossible to let go,
holding us back even as we forge ahead.

 

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  Dublin Poetry Review: Éigse Átha Cliath

 

                                                                                        Section 1 ~ Issue 21a

 

                             

             

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