After signing, my stroll takes in the tombs:
headstones of Victorian gentry
lying, untended, along moss-grown paths.
Their laments leap at me; testify
to an epitaph of inadequacy.
By way of stale silence I reach the road,
and looking back on subjects loyal,
hindsight dissolves in forgotten whispers
of smoke: our railways in sweated toil,
brogue built by ancestors from another soil.
1987
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