published in Entering the Tapestry
and Dancing at the Crossroads
As for words, he used so few
that his past was a high stone wall
leading down to the strand
and the smell of the sea
where fishermen never learned to swim.
He listened to a man from Wicklow play
runaway notes on his fiddle
in Camden Town or Kilburn
where the air was stale
in bars that were not home.
When my fatherís largeness left him
he went looking for a place to die
within walking distance of the sea
and the shadow of mountains
he could put a name to.
podcast - Jo Roach reading Life Lines -
of all poems featured on this site remains with the poet