At Last

A small sad man with a hat

he came through the Customs at Cobh

carrying a roped suitcase and

something in me began to contract

but also to expand. We stood,

his grown sons, seeking for words

which under the clouding mist

turn to clumsy, laughing gestures.

At the mouth of the harbour lay

the squat shape of the liner

hooting farewell, with the waves

striking against Spike Island’s grey.

We drove across Ireland that day,

lush river valleys of Cork, russet

of the Central Plain, landscapes

exotic to us Northerners, halting

only in a snug beyond Athlone

to hear a broadcast I had done.

How strange in that cramped room

my disembodied voice, the silence

after, as we looked at each other!

Slowly our eyes managed recognition.

‘Not bad,’ he said, and raised his glass:

Father and son at ease, at last.

The Dead Kingdom (1984)