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Cathal Coughlan
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White's Academy
My father was tailor
his workshop by the dock
He'd turn out farmers' Sunday suits
and vanities he'd mock.
He saved up for his firstborn
a start most scholarly
and off they packed my heedless head
to White's Academy.
Surgeons' sons and scriveners' sons
with their turn of phrase most glib
told me I could go to hell
and, well, it seems I did.
The father proud and saintly
the son a workshy drunk,
a serving-girl from Charleville
gave me her final months,
her body with its hungry sighs,
her trusting, hopeful soul;
until the breath gave out on her,
all that I wished I stole.
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Her family came to bury her,
I looked on wordlessly,
those high-boned faces, set from rain,
and not a glance at me.
The night is bright and cloudless,
the stars are bearing down,
and no-one will spare a bite to eat
in this mean and vanquished town.
Shelter's for the virtuous, not for the likes of me,
four hours from dawn, I climb up onto White's Acadamy.
I see the rotten alleys,
the marsh they partly fill,
the wide and snaking river,
and those mansions on the hill.
You must strike all who come near you,
for your nature so requires,
now rot you easy, goodnight and good day,
there'll have to be
a fire...
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