An Aran poem.

Posted by on May 13, 2015 in Blog, Ireland, Writing | 0 comments

A smoke in Aran

 

Background grumbling

Brings closer words around me.

A slow stream of familiar scent

From plug tobacco packed loosely in a pipe.

 

I turn to see this silent silhouette

Swaying slowly at the bar.

Aran jersey pulled, blue colored,

Under a grease stained jacket.

 

Another sip of the black stuff.

Another puff on the pipe

Anchored by well-worn teeth

In a salt-cured face.

 

Nicotine stained fingers press tightly

On the crinkled cap.

A red glow.

Another blue cloud backlit against the open door.

 

No voice. No flash of eye.

A dark pillar of a man.

Like upturned currach

Black-bellied to the western sky.

 

The pipe goes down

As the pint goes up.

Memories and taste

Blend together in remembered motion.

 

A shuffle of a weathered boot.

A cough.

A well-aimed spit,

Like hardened plug, finds home in ancient brass.

 

A push of the glass.

Another pint.

No words spoken

And silence never broken.

 

Eyebrows like thatch above

Those dark brown eyes,

Buried in a wrinkled world

Of terror in a black night at sea.

 

Hands worn like burled hazel.

Worn smooth and hard

From years of oars

And pounding surf.

 

No separation between

Nails and skin.

Deep ridges from years of hauling stinging meshes

On fingers, gnarled and almost gone.

 

A movement, slow and even paced.

He pushes away into the night.

And casts off from the bar.

Like moon warmed skins of tar.

 

Denis Hearn 2015

 

Ireland April 2012 211.jpg web large

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *