FOR CHRISTY DIGNAM

You are the one I will think of 

the next time I hear 

a sociologist declare

there is no such thing 

as working class culture.

I’ll picture you, with Finbarr on the Banjo,

duetting Green Fields of France

on the Late Late Show -

a summoning to the dead & 

to the living to unite; 

you singing like the dead boy’s 

heart itself might sing,

If the dead boy’s heart could sing

like you from underneath,

sing like you through the screen

to half a million unknown unseen

& move nearly every one.

By half-way through the second chorus, 

tens of thousands all over Ireland

are singing along.

A long overdue mass ritual.

Your lightning striking everyone at once.

Your people rising from stool

& settee to adore you.

With your wish-mouth 

& your dream-throat 

& The Republic of Equals

you bear aloft in your voice.

Your people have made the right choice.

For you go through what fire, 

what ice, what mud that they go through.

& as you carry them, they carry you.

As you enfold them, they enfold you.