It's in the puddlesoaked face of the old sparrow watcher as it pecks incessant at the porous mortar which is holding the bricks of his existence together. It's in the jingle of children skipping home from school, who fancies who ringing in the air as they firstfoot new ways to live in their own skin. It's in the cataracted memories of oldmen and women, as hazy as haar rolling in from the sea, the days and weeks playing out, set to gently repeat. It's underwear on washing lines brightening back yards, new life forcing its way through paving stone cracks, the swoop and attack of a newly written melody. It's crumbs left on the lawns of public parks by old soldiers who have nothing else to do except feed the pigeons so swear an oath to keep looking up. It's pension day post offices, queues outside before 9, library books returned late, the fine taken in the form of an exchange of warmth, time spent is not wasted. It's the taste of the sea, the sneeze of cutgrass, the blaze of the sun, the jag of the northwind bringing you up short just to remind you you're home. Harry Gallagher
