out Yapeen way in the old pub
long converted to a cottage
I've been looking again for the moon
in the window at night
like last year
every night
no moon
instead the voices of
gold rushers filling the dark
slaking dusty throats
sharing exaggerations
a well-turned ankle disappearing
into a back room
the Jaara people
unseen keeping watch
all-seeing
quizzing the drink
the music
the people
there's old Joe in the corner
with squeeze box
fit to beat the band
dancing the well-worn songs
Mary crying for old Ireland
on this hushed and moonless night
NOTES
Wednesday January 25 2012: voices
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