OK, I'll hide a poor one beneath one i think is ok - the second one, you can probably guess, i thought ... ok, which other places i have been to ... ok ... what happened there ... anything noteworthy ... not really ... just someone saying my name right ... is there anything in that ... well ... let's see ... erm ...
EALING
At Foxes’ Reservoir I saw two lads
Score two-eighty in twenty overs flat.
I still hold close one casual flick off pads
Into the trees, ball lethal from the bat.
Fourteen, they were, or so, they seemed like men
With mighty futures to me, starry-eyed,
A couple of years younger, even then
A team-mate bursting out with awe and pride.
One drowned a decade later trying to save
his brother in Grenada. I don’t know
about the other, if he still can play
the cut shot like an archer with a bow.
I saw the future - brutal, scything grace.
A ball lost in the woods, without a trace.
BELFAST
I don’t know why I’m not McGuffy or
McGocky, or McGaarhee, or McGoff.
I’ve been called everything you’ve heard and more –
McGregor, and McNaughty – or, they cough,
Say, sorry, Mister Mack.. erm… help me out.
I laugh, “Don’t worry, it’s Mc-Ga-hey, I
Tell people it’s a silent ug. I doubt
I know much more than you do as to why.”
I met a man in Belfast who could say
My name as easy as Smith, Jones or Brown –
No wince, no mangling, no prolonged delay –
McGaughey finally finding its home town.
I felt a pang of bathos mixed with shame.
My mystery name just, after all, a name.
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