Wrafters.

Wrafters.

When I was four
The Ballinamere bus
Started its run
Outside Wrafter ‘s Pub.
On tippy toes, I’d strain
to glimpse the swords
Rifles, pistols, daggers
Festooning walls and ceilings
In murky silence.

Sometimes
On frosty mornings
Curtains drawn
On tippy toes, I’d strain
To hear
The low whistle
The sad songs
The hushed poetry.

Sweeney and I
Off to school
Telling the chosen few
Tall tales of
Bus stop mysteries
But sure
Who’d believe
Two four year olds.
Their tiny
Arms and legs
Clambering
On empty kegs.

Those memories
When I was four
Now fall to me
Standing outside
Of Wrafters door.

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