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Under the bridge at Ballyhoo My love went down before the water, My white shirt in her white hands. A willow stick to whack it.
Who came by I did not see — Wash away the weeping, wailing. She brought it back to give to me The cuffs behind her trailing.
Below the falls at Foofaraw My love went down before the water, My white shirt in her white hands. A laurel stick to lam it.
Who rode by I could not hear — Wash away the will, the wishing — When she brought it back to me A yard of tail was missing.
Beside the rocks at Rantan Bay My love went down before the water, My white shirt in her white hands. A blackthorn stick to bat it.
Who came by I dare not name — Wash away the fear to follow. She brought it back to give to me With brimstone on the collar.
Who rode by I know I know — Wash away the false, the failing — Down the River Rowdydow My once fine shirt goes sailing.
This morning, six-thirty, the light of the sun flickers through curtains to brighten the room.
Two glasses, one empty the other half-full: the dregs of vin ordinaire darkened and dull.
Wind in the willow tree outside the window throws a quick shadow across the stone floor.
The corkscrew, still holding the prize of the night, lies on the carpet: a stab in the sunlight.
Beside it the candle has dribbled red wax down from the bookshelf on unopened mail.
On the bench, the broken bread, Caullomiers — the poem, unfinished, crumpled on the chair.
You live with this: the man, the woman walking close to water. It is summer but they are dressed as though approaching autumn.
He wears his climbing boots, his Levi's. She wears her anorak. He holds her hand and seems to coax the woman to be cautious,
to watch her step. Laughing, she lets go and from the hand she quickly takes from his he tugs a glove. She brags the wedding finger
and runs from him, daring him to chase and so he does, right to the river's edge. The floods of water muffle out the laughter.
Here the man, the woman, both collide to child again. They simply dance on rock all slippery with green weed from the water.
They must have known where they were going. Perhaps it was to cross the stepping stones. Perhaps it was the steep climb into woodland
where they knew leaf's shadowing would shield their new embrace, desired discovery. That journey was the passionate adventure
of one foot slipping, one hand reaching, one hand gripping on to green but ripping and then the sudden silence in rough water.
On the bank she left her anorak. He left a skid, a boot mark on the rock. Behind them stood the cottage with lace curtains
neatly drawn to keep the wedding cake. Stacked upon the table were the presents. For them there were no arguments, no favours.
You live with this: and on each recall you hear the hammer thunder in the flood and see the axe head in the river's silver.
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