Wednesday, February 27, 2008

The ghost of Sunday

Johnny Cash - Sunday Morning Coming Down

Could've turned for home, but just went on the warmer way
and I met the ghost of Sunday on the corner of Bryan Avenue.
A memory of malt and hops and roasted coffee
must have blown in from St James's Gate, all the way.
It wasn't there, just the memory and Johnny Cash
and the sleeping city sidewalk, not O'Connell Street
just a few sunlit squares of concrete all to myself.

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1 comment:

Ossian said...

Iniskeen Road : July Evening

The bicycles go by in twos and threes--
There's a dance in Billy Brennan's barn to-night,
And there's the half-talk code of mysteries
And the wink-and-elbow language of delight.
Half-past eight and there is not a spot
Upon a mile of road, no shadow thrown
That might turn out a man or woman, not
A footfall tapping secrecies of stone.

I have what every poet hates in spite
Of all the solemn talk of contemplation
Oh, Alexander Selkirk knew the plight
Of being king and government and nation.
A road, a mile of kingdom, I am king
Of banks and stones and every blooming thing.

Patrick Kavanagh