1.
Peter, looking across the car park
for some trace of his family home
inside the Guinness complex on Thomas Street;
finding it difficult to pinpoint exactly
where the house was, where the garden began,
where the enclosing walls were,
sees the pear tree against the office wall.
In all that development, the only trace of home,
the only greenery on the site, the solitary survivor
from the greenery of his playing days:
that pear tree.
With memories unexpectedly unrooted
and he a witness with short years ahead;
he resorts to stories
which is, eventually, the fate of all lives.
2.
At lunchtime Peter and I repair to a pub;
we sit at the counter with sandwiches and pints;
he refuses to be photographed.
At some point, I catch a view of his face in the mirror
behind the bar, between the bottles; he does not notice.
A man, home after a lifetime abroad; old now, alone,
even from his past and unwilling to view his face;
how time has run over it,
how it obliterates the past.
