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Brian Ward

Our breath obscures the window of our vision,

The windows of the Princess bus from Cashel

Bringing the babbling housewives to Clonmel;

And outside men's hard toil is frozen dead.

Too much of wasted breath,

Words, statements, stories,

Lunchtime boasting in the pub

Of houses, clubs, THE CAR, and how I clinched the deal.

And how to win the Test, the Rugger trials,

And why Mike Hawthorn died.

Why must we spew such rotting streams of words

That only form a vapour and condense

In opaque drops upon the glass

To dull our vision. The more we talk

The blinder we. Our own small world

No bigger than a single-decker bus

Hemmed in along the narrow lane

We've chosen for our life -

Between our Cashels and Clonmels.


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