Poem Twelve: How Blow-ins Become Locals
How Blow-ins Become Locals
My senior infant makes out the message
on a Denny's rasher truck: HOME
IS WHERE YOU MAKE IT
And we pass them again,
they're filing out the Leitrim Road
bending into the rain like willows:
Kurds heading for Lis Cara
under a useless golf umbrella.
Hey! There's our Kurds!
Last night our swallows blew in
from Africa chirruping in a disused shed.
Our willie wagtail's local and mighty territorial.
Then there's the one heard at a gate
near Drumkeerin: My hippie's cuttin' hay–
what's your hippie at, so? So
it begins– the circuit of us.
My senior infant makes out the message
on a Denny's rasher truck: HOME
IS WHERE YOU MAKE IT
And we pass them again,
they're filing out the Leitrim Road
bending into the rain like willows:
Kurds heading for Lis Cara
under a useless golf umbrella.
Hey! There's our Kurds!
Last night our swallows blew in
from Africa chirruping in a disused shed.
Our willie wagtail's local and mighty territorial.
Then there's the one heard at a gate
near Drumkeerin: My hippie's cuttin' hay–
what's your hippie at, so? So
it begins– the circuit of us.
posted by Alice Lyons at 4:51 p.m.
2 Comments:
Alice Lyons I miss your staircase poems.
They are just wonderful.
Thanks very much Brian. I loved the project because it was a rare opportunity to have such a direct conversation with readers who visited The Dock.
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