Coming Home
COMING HOME
I came home at last across the seas
To my home country in South Dublin,
And stood soaking up the refreshing Irish mist,
Allowing the Manchester smoke to wash out of my lungs.
O’ Connell Street was busy as usual,
And the familiar glottal stops of Arabic drifted
Out from a traditional kebab take away,
In its doorway a tin whistle player and his hat of coins.
I watched the policewomen adjusting their hejabs
And very politely controlling the football crowd -
Stragglers from Croke Park,
Heading for Guinness and kebabs for supper.
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