Sleeping the sleep of the emigrant
Sitting by the fire in the old house
My father waiting for me at the North Wall Ferryport
Going to the bars to see ex lovers and friends

Hearing the latest news and banter in the warm glow of recognition
Dinner in the little railway cottages that line the North Strand
My mother still a distant presence who my brothers talk of
Like a banshee who occasionally cries in the night
How all have cars and cash and why would anyone stay
in London when Ireland is Tir na Nog

The old haunts not yet demolished with familiar ways and byways
The craic in the pubs where every second person writes a novel or 
recites a poem and the spirit of Joyce and Behan still walks
Long before stags and hens laid waste the land

The rude awakening to the tortuous light of Now
The grating voices and the arrogant swagger of business suits
No one waits at Arrivals and the sign to Departures is always clear
The Past is a foreign country and despatched to Youtube and photographic
exhibitions where those like me may reminisce
The pubs are full of young strangers and no-one knows what happened to those
who have fallen through the vortex of passing time.

It is no country for old men and families have grown and come and gone
the ghostly presence of a long gone relative an occasional reminder
of when youth and Spring seemed all there was
Now and then a familiar face emerges from the fog of Time
A memory of what has been and gone
Joining the tourist throngs and seeing the city through tourist eyes
Fionn stands on the cliffs and gazes on a new made world.

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