DELPHI
The ghosts of Mount Parnassus hardly cope
With youthful crassicists, all Amstel breath
And Marlboro reds sneaked further down the slope.
“This is a place” their teacher says” of death
upturned, of prophecy, all history born”.
Now piqued, they drain retsinas and catch sleep.
With sore Pythian heads they greet the morn,
Pray for Apollo’s mercy then breathe … deep.
A race! the ancient stadium the site.
They scamper, kids again, the winner crowned,
His triumph brief as he regrets last night
And, oh the shame, can’t keep his dinner down.
Miasma mighty Delphi’s temple hereto has not known,
A sacrilegious offering that’s his and his alone.
CORK
Our mother grants us coke floats while we wait
In the back garden. “Late …”, she frowns and sighs.
But we’re holiday-happy, dodge the bait
‘Til your old blue Granada at last arrives.
We cross from Fishguard to Rosslare; at night
I mark the unknown hours and trace the wake.
We breach the rebel county at first light -
You’re back, and we’ve a heritage to make.
Red carpets, the Glenavon, shabby grand
Up steep Cork city streets for scattered rest,
We’re breakfast connoisseurs at once, this land
Of puddings white and black put to our test.
We roam the land with the most Irish man you’ve ever known
Our father art in heaven – and that week, that heaven’s home.
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