Easter Sunday evening.
We pore over our given hands,
shake off the torpor of a feast.
Mock reluctant grandparents, razor-sharp
in snug armchairs, have been drawn in.
Back to the fireplace, on a stool
I’m folded, ready to wrestle
their wrinkled fingers: solo whist,
clash of one against three.
With his one-time bank clerk’s deft flick
my father riffles the pack, cuts, shuffles,
and deals four provinces their chance.
I decipher the semaphore
of reordered dispositions:
faces are fanned as a shield.
Preferring no-trump mayhem
to canon of hearts, clubs, diamonds, spades,
Dad’s favourite bid, misère,
defies us all to make him win.
As patterns emerge, others warm
to a prospect of abundance.
His own father is a slab of a man.
White hair trimmed weekly, serious
about gaining majorities and
taciturn as a croppy boy.
Has De Valera next to God,
says only “talk never played a hand”.
“There’s a nice little card for you”
replies my mother’s mother, easy
with the humour of dual loyalties:
brothers in Cork shipyards, husband
at Jutland, translating wireless
signals. Another volunteer.
Hush. Turned cards are on the table,
played like scenes from Irish history:
the rising and the risen.
Literary Orphans #12, 2014
No comments:
Post a Comment