The Irish Literary Times

Pat Boran
Burgh QuayIE 

is clothes so wet you’d think a child would know.
‘You never met him?’ I keep it bright. ‘That’s the man
who makes it rain.’ You are three or four,

and, as we file past the Garda van,
the ambulance and crew, the whispering crowd
conjured out of nowhere, your small hand 

ook for us, an Irishman, a Pole,

At the heart of Africa. Having fallen out

So long ago, with our own dark continent

Of Inquisitorial faith, Cartesian doubt.

Exiles, taking time out for the soul –

Our bleak outstation. Tired of argument

With the likes of myself, degenerate and sick,

A liberal tempter – Father Stanislawek