Waiting for the Ferry to Passage East
It seemed in the manner and easy pace
of Ireland that no ferry would be over
for another hour or maybe three and so,
things being as they were, we had a while
to wait, finding as the day grew warmer
the onset of a healthy thirst prevailed.
Entering the one bar of the one pub,
our English accents drew some angry glares
from local men, apparently still soured
in recollection of cruel histories.
Drinks were ordered, taken, cards were dealt;
some coins were on the table for the game.
I had a knack of winning hands, although
without real skill, just devil’s luck at work.
I piled small change with due indifference,
always aware of hostile eyes on us.
No trouble came: It was as if by chance
I’d hypnotised the audience at last.
Neither the game nor gain meant much to me:
Nothing was ever at stake but boredom.
Is this the way it works? Can fortune entail
an absence of emphasis on outcomes?
And does what matters least bring less ill-luck?
If so, immense affairs are set to fail.
Copyright © John Blake | Year Posted 2018