Poetry

Sunday Morning in Mohill

Corner boys stand on well worn feet
Ambular, elite.
Suck wet woodbines, two fingered,
Through nicotine stained teeth.
Listen to the wind rustle
Through a chip bag street,
Rolled up newspapers, underarm,
Whisper worldly feats,
As O'Carolan sits on his concrete seat.
Under the shade of a leafy sheet
Churchgoing neighbours noisily meet
A religious fleet.
Lazy dogs bark
In the dusty heat,
Sunday morning in Mohill,
On Main St..

Ronan Gallagher
 


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