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Lonely in Ireland, since it was not home, 
Strangeness made sense. The salt rebuff of speech, 
Insisting so on difference, made me welcome: 
Once that was recognised, we were in touch 

Their draughty streets, end-on to hills, the faint 
Archaic smell of dockland, like a stable, 
The herring-hawker's cry, dwindling, went 
To prove me separate, not unworkable. 

Living in England has no such excuse: 
These are my customs and establishments 
It would be much more serious to refuse. 
Here no elsewhere underwrites my existence. 

Added: 24 Jun 2002 | Last Read: 8 May 2024 7:27 AM | Viewed: 20700 times

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