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
