Ulysses
seacows. Faugh a Ballagh! Out of that, bloody curse to you!
Others in vessels, bit of a handkerchief sail, pitched about
like snuff at a wake when the stormy winds do blow. Mar-
ried too. Sometimes away for years at the ends of the earth
somewhere. No ends really because it’s round. Wife in every
port they say. She has a good job if she minds it till Johnny
comes marching home again. If ever he does. Smelling the
tail end of ports. How can they like the sea? Yet they do. The
anchor’s weighed. Off he sails with a scapular or a medal on
him for luck. Well. And the tephilim no what’s this they call
it poor papa’s father had on his door to touch. That brought
us out of the land of Egypt and into the house of bondage.
Something in all those superstitions because when you go
out never know what dangers. Hanging on to a plank or
astride of a beam for grim life, lifebelt round him, gulping
salt water, and that’s the last of his nibs till the sharks catch
hold of him. Do fish ever get seasick?
Then you have a beautiful calm without a cloud, smooth
sea, placid, crew and cargo in smithereens, Davy Jones’
locker, moon looking down so peaceful. Not my fault, old
cockalorum.
A last lonely candle wandered up the sky from Mirus
bazaar in search of funds for Mercer’s hospital and broke,
drooping, and shed a cluster of violet but one white stars.
They floated, fell: they faded. The shepherd’s hour: the hour
of folding: hour of tryst. From house to house, giving his
everwelcome double knock, went the nine o’clock post-
man, the glowworm’s lamp at his belt gleaming here and
there through the laurel hedges. And among the five young