The Seven Days
The townland a green desert
of raged,ragged dreams,
womanless cottages meander its length,
every day a grey bale of empty time.
Soft words heard here only by an early lamb
or a worthwhile collie,
a tome of unsent lovenotes on the oil-cloth.
Embered nights of perfected repartee,
creative excuses to linger longer
with the Post Office woman.
A monologue of imagined sweet talk,
a coarse poem of love,pencil-carved on lined paper
and no rhyme for gorgeous.
Longing wailed to the night wind,
the crystal jig of rain on glass,
and the moon diverted.
Then,the bright day of new hope.
The closest of shaves,the brylcreem anointing,
the smile inserted and the suit pressed.
The gabardine coat folded on the handlebar,
gleaming shoes are mirrors of industry,
jacket pockets rattle with heavy washers.
His bicycle purrs a silver aria,
while he murmurs his winning words
to the rhythm of the spinning road.
2
Delayed by a laneway encounter with Francie McBride,
he concedes his place in the queue to Reilly and Brady.
Listens,flint-eyed,as they stutter invitations
to Kernan`s Barndance or to the bingo at Tullyroan.
How gentle the woman is,their rueful smiles scream defeat.
At the counter words and courage leave him,
his love talk coagulates as her smile holds him.
He talks of the heather purpling at Derrycoosh,
how the rowanberries are clustering by the half-road,
how the waterfall is now a satin loom of mercury and gold.
She counts out his allotted weekly wealth and wishes and wonders.
In redfaced shame he sighs,the unopened poem burns.
On Main Street,Reilly and Brady wait anxiously for news.
Up the laneway,old Francie anticipates his brewed payment.
The seven days begin,again.
Michael Herron
