You describe one road winding cobbled gray
to three rocks overlooking strand, harbour,
hotel. A boy is falling from a tree, lighthouse
is hidden in sunlight. A white man. A red kite.
Driver on an oval track. Figure on a bench.

It was Endgame at the Peacock and Krapp’s
Last Tape
on the radio, as I was driving to
Youghal, that converted me. The hot disc
atop the warehouse this evening cuts through
day’s heaviness. I pray for plain style. Clarity.

Base of granite, gray spotted marble late May
Sunday chirping birds at noon: Montparnasse
Cemetery under a clear sky. Walked with a
man from Dakar to Twelfth Division Number
66, grave of Suzanne and Samuel Beckett.

-Eamonn Wall


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