Tom Barry’s ghost moves to Dublin

Who is there now that can remember

Our little intifada?

Here in the walled round city of the possible.

Here in the pale beyond the ditch of  time.

In a time that should never have  been,

In a petty Republic no more than a  name.

There is no such thing as children.

Mother’s and fathers I won’t even  mention,

Or the old men who used to sing and whistle

On the way to  work,

Or the keeners who are long gone out of a  job,

For who sees any sadness now

in the going the flesh way?

Last week as I wandered round the bog

I saw the last telling ruin bulldozed to the ground.

Or the doors nailed shut,

Or the windows painted black.

Nor a well or a tinker’s horse or a sloe-bush to be found.

The whole shaggin country’s a golf course.

Them and their men made of  bronze.

Well I tell you now it’s a sad day

When there’s not a sinner left around

To haunt with hope.

When even the ghosts give up

The ghost

And move to Dublin.