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Page 13 of 18

Brien Seosamh (Brian Joseph) Mac an Bháird


Our breath obscures the window of our vision,
The windows of the Princess bus from Cashel
Bringing the babbling housewives to Clonmel;
And outside men's hard toil is frozen dead.
Too much of wasted breath,
Words, statements, stories,
Lunchtime boasting in the pub
Of houses, clubs, THE CAR, and how I clinched the deal.
And how to win the Test, the Rugger trials,
And why Mike Hawthorn died.
Why must we spew such rotting streams of words
That only form a vapour and condense
In opaque drops upon the glass
To dull our vision. The more we talk
The blinder we. Our own small world
No bigger than a single-decker bus
Hemmed in along the narrow lane
We've chosen for our life -
Between our Cashels and Clonmels.


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