The dog lay at the end of the kitchen
having been evicted from under the table by
the feet and legs of the card players. We
gambled our ‘wren day’ money out of the
‘Players Please’ purple box that was lined
with white tissue paper and held fifty un – tipped.
I didn’t mind missing Radio Luxembourg
on those nights, when the visitors had
a glass of sherry with a biscuit to soak
it up and stop it going to their head they
said. Reckless they peddled home with
only the winter moon to light their way.
Past the ghosts rustling behind ditches.
or by every gateway. The Quare Hawk
who spent his nights hidden at the doorway
of the wall that went nowhere, always
announced ‘Good night’ and the hands in the
hand-knitted gloves gripped tighter on the handlebars.
How was it all worth it, to play twenty-five,
drink a little sherry and have tea and
Christmas cake from the good delph.
K.R. Feb. 2018.