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Frank Dullaghan

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Losing the Language

* Ta mo bheal dunta,
  gach focal briste bruite.        
             
You were good at the language,
not the English we spoke every day
but the older air of Irish
fluent with the curl and ride
of its notes on your lips.
And I knew enough of it myself,
to be easy in my listening.
           
Those first years in Birmingham
you would call me at work
from the headache of your desk,
your concerns wrapped in a melody
that could not be decoded
by your listening colleagues or boss.
And I knew enough of it still,
to respond in a mongrel tongue.       
        
There are times now, though few,
when you call, your English lilting
with an echo of the same song.
But you’ve changed, grown older,
less risky with words,  less dependent.
The Irish, you say, is lost;
infrequent use has left you tone-dumb.
And I don’t know enough any more
to stay in key.

* My mouth is closed,
  each breath broken and bruised.

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