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By Root 6120 0

those oarlocks. South over there is the Trinity College, the Balls-bridge, Donnybrook, Milltown, Windy Harbour and beyond. I know them all. Cold killing wind between my knees. Slant black spires of the little mountains. Within that carpet of light. All my tiny sad despairs. Like watching out of my tower. Gather my ships from the edges of the sea. Called from where they were dying. I don't want to go. But if I don't? I have nowhere to call my own again. What can I say? Tell me. What can I say? So much I would like to keep forever. Flecks of water brushed from oily laurel leaves or my steps during the silences of morning or late night. And the donkey calls. Or as I lay on my back in Ireland looking up out of the world. There was a day in summer when I walked up the mountain and stood at Kilmurry. From the bottom of the steep green fields and all the way to the Moulditch Bank. a blue trembling brim of sea, a little white. On this day there was a train coming up from Wicklow town towards Dublin. Crawling across my hand. Spread on the meadowed bottom land. The sun was shining on this train. Carrying my heart away. They send off the whistle so I almost jump out of my shoes. And it comes back from the broken houses along John Rogerson's Quay. I hear the winch. Click and growl. White wash fanning away on the water. Tenderly to midstream. By other boats and the half island of Ringsend. Is there a nest of fire and home within those windows? This ship slipping between the lighthouses of Bailey and Muglins. Man riding a bicycle on the Pigeon House Road. Howth and Dalkey. I feel the sea under me.

I set sail

On this crucifixion Friday

With the stormy heavens

Crushing the sea

And my heart

Twisted

With dying.

25

Undo this safety pin. Miss Frost's blouse. This rusty pullover. Put these on the chair. And I think cover my nudity with trusty blotched mackintosh. Walk on the rug in bare feet, dig the toes in something awful.

Opening the door, stepping out into this wide hall. A chamber maid coming around the corner. Her kindly young smile looking rather closely at my ankles.

"Would you like a bath towel, sir?"

"Well—"

I'm confused, pausing in the hall in an embarrassing condition for consideration of a towel due to possibility of foot smell and the valleys of me soiled with deposits of poverty.

"Only a minute, sir. They're nice and hot"

"Well Hot. Yes. Is that it there?"

The door on your right, sir."

"Well thank you."

"Not at all, sir."

The vagaries of this species. Her little hat. Flounce. Pushing open this impersonal door and switching on the light. In the far corner of the room a tub to bathe the world. So fat and far and full. Cork topped chair. Taps. Gigantic things. Just take off this waterproof garment and get a sup of the libido. A little of this ego admiration in the mirror. Now I haven't a bad build at all. Trifle swell at the waist. Odd rib showing. Flex the muscles. Good god. Must join an athletic dub.

He was closing the little window, looking out in the stream of chill air to see all the windows. In this enormous city. I know there are business men here. I know it.

A knock. Of a type well delivered with the metacarpals.

"Sir?"

"One moment."

Opening the door. Naked shoulder. Please don't think me devoid of modesty. Young woman, do you know that this is risky business? I mean to say, you know, two of us and one man and one woman. Honestly, I think perhaps I wouldn't be past possessing you. Out of kindness if nothing else.

"Here you are. It's nice and big. Silly little towels wouldn't dry an ant"

"Ha, ha."

"Prewar, sir."

"Indeed, I thank you very much."

"And very welcome you are, sir."

Closing the door and taking this towel which was every bit a rather large carpet. And turning the taps and the water pouring out. Lowering into it. Sitting back in this warm balm. I have been delivered from many a tired year and cold day with walking streets ill shod, ferrying my educated soul, slipping sensibly behind barrels, walls and battlements, playing undiscovered and overdrawn at banks and everywhere.

Floating.