Emigration Photo

For Hughie O'Donoghue

This is the one who will leave, has already gone,
has stood in the open door
hearing his thoughts like a voice—
You will never see this again.

And he's paused, and the mist has come down on his mind:
he's looked at the yellow leaves in the grass,
the rain lying down on the tussocky field,
the cows nosing over the gate.

Stand over there —
He has stood by the net of the thorn.
Take off your hat—
It's been thrown on the grass behind.

He's strong, his body too strong
for his jacket, his strength
is bursting its buttons, shooting its sleeves,
pushing its pockets awry.

He lives warm and alive with death
but listens, intent, inside life which will sear
the skin from his hands and the flesh from his feet
when the soles of his boots are gone.

He will weep, drink, weep, drink again,
having flesh that will teach
how to live, how to die,
who it is who is doing either.

And the light which made this moment of him?
This light already reclaims him.