The Terrorist

I’m exploring a village in County Roscommon, a quaint little place

on the banks of the Shannon. I’m strolling around, trying to catch

the atmosphere like I’d try to catch a tan. It’s  Summer, there’s no traffic,  

a few boats on the river, some hall doors are open, the shops are quiet,

if a bee stirred that would be the height of it.

It doesn’t take long to get around the whole village.Countryside laps

to every backdoor, the church on its ground is silent  as a tombstone,

the Shannon drags itself painstakingly by, and the sun’s heat has settled itself down

among the clouds. In the fields the hay is saved, somewhere a cow is yawning;

and an old man drives past in a tractor, going three miles an hour.

I know this, because he is half way to the shop, when I decide to make a race of it.

There is quarter of a mile at most, straight road, and, walking, I’m already gaining

on him. He’s past half way, moving incredibly slowly. I’ve covered half the distance

 between us.  He’s three quarters way, I’m over half way.  I’m almost level, almost level

when I reach the shop.Later I discover, locals call him The Terrorist.