How Feichín Got His Other Name, Moéca (Backslider).

Feichín stumped out of Clonmacnoise fuming,

the argument a burst blister in his head.

That cur, Ciarán, had, for the last time, demeaned him;

may his feet blacken with gangrene, may a nest of ulcers

prevent wine ever passing his lips again.

All day Feichín had tended the oxen while it poured and hailed

and him without the merest fortification of a drink.

He made ribbons of his arms climbing through a hedge of briars,

stumbled up to his neck into a stand of nettles, fell through the bridge

over Abha Bán where the rotten timbers ripped open his leg.

Lumbering on now, he growled at shadows, sent the stones of the road

into the bushes with delicious kicks he imagined on Ciarán’s arse;

but suddenly, breaking his reverie, the detested voice was ordering him back.

He grumbled, fought with it, cursed God, but having no choice,

walked backward so as not to look that accursed saint in the face.