It was the roustabout whirl
Of the siege-of-Ennis on the marquee floor
The hot night Summer carnival
The fights, to-be-continued New Year
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Easter, St Patrick’s night, young men
Letting off steam with fists. Knives, the scian
The cut-and-come-again
Flash of something dangerous. Borges' vaiven
Shining in the light of the disco ball. Women
Screamed, one fainted in the direction
Of the knifeman. Up on their tricks
The lads ignored them, upped and skipped
To England, stayed gone until Easter.
What she remembers is the last dance she got
The night it ended – a slow foxtrot
How the band never stopped, just played louder.
Once it was all this and weekly confession
Rehearsed sins. Now it’s a tourist slogan.
Mary O’Malley has written seven books of poetry.
