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Seán Body

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Writing home, June 1849

It was hope we had then,
that aching night. A cold wind
driving us. Watching the lights
go out, and the land.

My man's arm a comfort:
See, Sarah, it's still there.
Our hearts singing and breaking.
Eight months we'd waited

on the passage, and every day
wasting. Still, Sarah, still.
And still it was, looking back,
night and distance making peace

with all we'd left. Moments
from our lives looking up at us
as if we'd gathered them
in small piles. Then dawn, a kindling.

Look, Sarah, the sun gettin' up
to let us in! Stepping off
with a lurch of the heart.
So many fine buildings,

all of them black. Soot
everywhere, from tall chimneys
that cut off heaven.
Our room never saw the day.

The child came early.
A poor little thing she was
and my milk dry. I took it hard
then. His arm never left me.

I'm sorry, Sarah, he fumbled,
as if loving was the evil.
The joy had gone out of me.
I'm on my own now

and weak for the work.
They don't welcome us here.
Sure who'd blame them?
It's little enough they have.

I wash their corpses,
lay them out. Glad sometimes
for the quiet company -
I miss friends.

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