Down the Line

Down the Line

In the silence before the train,
she stands on the unsheltered platform,
her mind brittle as porcelain,
nerves tight as a fist.

              In a shoulderbag, 
              amongst all her scented things, 
              there are memories 
              of unclouded summers,
              of nights loud with fairground noise,
              a jukebox throbbing 
              its catchcries of love,
              the air heavy with cigarette smoke,
              the smell of oil and sweat,
              freckled weather
              when she walked the prom,
              a tang of seaweed on her skin,
              slim as an hourglass, 
              bright as a fallen angel.

She straightens her back
and the world moves under her
as the train grinds its teeth
and fists its way
into the station.

              In another town down the line
              there’s a man
              who’ll comb the grey from her hair,
              who’ll keep the heaviness of time
              from her mind, and from her waist,
              a man she’s never met
              who’ll slow her violent heartbeat.

Iarnród

Iarnród

Iarnród

Sa chiúnas roimh theacht na traenach
seasann sí ar an ardán lom,
a meabhair chomh briosc le poirceallán,
néaróga chomh teann le dorn iata.

              I mála ascaille
              lena giúirléidí cumhra,
              tá cuimhní fada
              ar shamhraití gan scamall, 
              oícheanta lán de challán aonaigh,
              de cheolta Wurlitzer
              ag tonnadh manaí grá ar a cluasa,
              an t-aer ramhar le toit,
              le boladh íle is allais,
              aimsir bhreicneach
              nuair a shiúladh sí an tsráid,
              mus feamainne ar a craiceann órtha,
              chomh seang le horláiste, 
              chomh drithleach
              le haingeal tite.

Díríonn sí a drom
is critheann an domhan féna sála
nuair a bhrúnn an traein dorn iarainn
le gíoscán fiacal
isteach i ngabhal an stáisiúin. 

              I mbaile nua fan na slí, tá fear
              a chíorfaidh an liath dá gruaig,
              a choimeádfaidh spadántacht na mblian
              óna meabhair is óna com,
              fear eile fós a chiúineoidh 
              greadadh glórach a croí.