the heft of backpack
worn boots that thread stone paths
I drink in Wine Street
talk with Mr Quirke in his butcher-shop
he carves mythology into timber
shapes an off-cut for me
a leaping fish
the ‘salmon of knowledge’
or – perhaps
(as Douglas Adams would’ve had it)
the ‘salmon of doubt’

​

I’ve cast a cold eye on the poet’s grave
on Medb’s cairn on Knocknarea
on Carrowmore
where stones channel rain
charnel houses
bones split between air and sky
in exchange for Guinness
I donate blood
offer to donate more

​

ravens mediate between
             this ribcage of standing stones
             this beating heart

​

the wind has bundled up the clouds
I find a pub to warm my skin
tell barman I’m hitchhiking
he finds a piece of card letterheaded ‘Fosters’
for the Aussie backpacker
on one side he writes ‘Galway’
on the other ‘anywhere...’

​

[includes quotes from W.B. Yeats in italics]