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Art Murphy

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Gateway

River Street, Newry 1948

The tongue flicks out as river and canal
around host houses built on cobbled quays

for sugar and butter, coal and timber -
plenary indulgence of the mundane,

for a rationed people, the exotic,
if only for the ships that carried them.

Now, sand-bagged, half moons of doorsteps quiver
like driftwood in the neap tide flood.

Only giant hog-weed, marsh-grass, ragwort
can thrive in this season's sediment.

What'll remain is slough - stones, mattresses,
car doors, market boxes, bicycle frames,

brown paper bags flapping like broken wings
in the glut of glaur - the tide's diallage,

boxing glove smooth and shining in the sun.
It weighs all contenders. When it bites,

it bites whole and gulps on its own chyme.
At Narrow Water what was guarded

is now breached. Through a mountain tore
the currents flow from a legendary sea,

bound or loose, scattered or gathered,
and the ravenous mouth eats the proffered tail.


 

Page(s) 43

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