In between visiting hours
the Gruoni Veridis splutters into the Celtic green of Kilmore Quay.
Tangled among the rusted poles are green nets,
scrap steel, ropes, chains, stacked-up, dried-out
Along the promenade
three teenagers fight the bit out
over green M&M’s
beside an old corroded giant: an industrial sculpture
saved from the rock-struck steamer: SS Idaho.
Fishing, once the sole backbone on the fluid god
now yields to the life support system
of a fifty five berth marina and the chartered pleasure cruisers:
Dream, Celtic Lady II.
Fresh ice chutes
are inserted into the steel belly of Willie B
and Mikey the fisherman’s afternoon work in oily overalls
is welding the broken main frame,
or painting the hull of Osiris viridian green.
Sometime in the future
it will seem like only yesterday
I held your hand.
The Straw Chopper
That’s a Philip Pierce & Co model
from the infamous lock out foundry of old Wexford town
where Tescos is Doyle declares.
You feed in straw through the top, reel this handle here
and the fly-wheel keeps momentum going.’
For a moment I’m distracted
by the cumhráin of spurting slurry over in Rochford’s field
and the children’s motorized glider.
See these blades, can still slice a limb
This cast-iron symbol of agricultural industry
propped against the new roll-belt baler in Doyle’s yard
is near down to its brittle knees.
I crank the handle.
The rusted drum shrieks through one reluctant revolution.
The earth spins faster, son.
‘You’d think this contraption would outlive the cockroaches.’
Rust waits for no machine.