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The day of my wife's funeral
I cycled behind the hearse
On my Hercules with dropped handlebars
All the way up to Mount Jerorne
And back again.

I had a drink on my own
In The Waterloo House
In Baggot Street.
I was elated.
But after three glasses of claret
I was composed,
Ready for the improvisation.

I walked out into the night
Up to Baggot Street Bridge
Ready for the improvisation.
I walked straight through the locked
Glass door of Bord Fåilte,
When I got to my feet I was a glass man.

I crept off in a stoop,
A stoop with the cream
Skimmed off its milk,
A bird cut out of glass,
Up along the canal,
No flowers in my claws.

li

Singing the praises
Of water, of catwalks, of locks,
Of artisans,
Of the total absence
Of dogs at this time of night,
Of towpaths, of canal bank seats,
Of lanes, of bookshops, of women
Of wornen at pianos alone in flats
Playing Field Nocturnes,
Of Mary Lavin's daughters in Lad Lane,
Of the Misses King and O'Flaherty in Parsons Bookshop,
Of Michael Kane at his window in Waterloo Road.

My trousers are cut.
My jacket is cut.
I am walking up the middle of the canal
Up to my shinbones in water.
I am walking on my knees
Acquiring humility.
I like walking on my knees
Acquiring humility.
Humility is not endless.

No flowers on my knees
But the body of a bicycle
Which I hold up aloft:
Her darling head.
Are you ready for your new life, my love?
Your old frame back?