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previously
published in Entering the Tapestry and Dancing at the Crossroads Place
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 father’s 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.
Jo Roach
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