Trudging splattered tarmac, welly booted
cloth capped and sweatered in pea pod green,
"When was he born? The calf you mean?
Three weeks ago, on the Wednesday".
The wrought strength in his face could knock you
over, but each word he stoops to heave,
unsure how his great hands can take ahold,
how his legs can bend to extract it from the
squelch of his long silent day, to struggle
up each drystone word, to conjure the megalithic
joy of a calf. And on he goes to the gate,
to the holy family standing there, each ear
yellow tagged for the butcher‘s slab. They‘ve
forgotten where they were going. Then on
they‘re urged with a touch of his hand into the soft
field; and the blue metalled road returns
to emptiness, whispering silence, his words
dissolved, weathered away in the wet wind.

County Clare, Ireland
March 2008

Note: what he actually said was "......two weeks last Wednesday......that‘ll be three weeks next Wednesday......"

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