was older than my father
by eleven years. They might
have walked together in a hawthorn lane,
in Cronk y Voddey or Inishkeen,
talking of how to treat a spavined horse,
the clearance of a watercourse,
or just red skies at night.
I can not keep up. Will
they wait for me, seeing I am lame?
No, they are gone
again, behind the hill
with the difficult name.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, David Callin
would be pleased to hear them.