Mustard Seed

Mustard Seed, April

Its piano stands idly by the door

Legend grows by the dormant key

Someone to return and a song will play

A Picture hangs over the fire

With blotches of thick paint unevenly spread

This heavy touch divides the room

Waiters on the right side of simpering

Mingle with cats preening and dreaming

Fat men heaving and leaving

Books on the shelves

They are asylum seekers of the past

Wanting to work on your mind

Smiling faces play rugger

On sepia, on fields, on walls

I was here before

Playing the exile

Passing Chilean wines from hand to table

Toasting all that was to come

That precise space with dimensions

Of beginnings and endings

Angles of a well turned mind

Intimate rendering of a scene

Not necessarily being parent to the child

To the moment of the happening

Near or far from the seanchaí’s breath

To be recorded into history by lecturers

Clicking Dictaphones and directing ears

Toward years and drinking beers

Swapping stories through the lens

Of girls looked at, walked at

Holding hands in a courting land

Stamp my visa with kisses, dear

I am a travelling back

Memories unfurl like

Hanging meats cured by salt

Enda Kenneally

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