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.
