Wreathed in pipesmoke,
caps jauntily aslant
village men of Bogside gather
inside a thatched- roof
pub
their talk punctuates
the air
with politics,
the weather
and animals-
sheep, dogs, or swine
and a thick brogue
resonates
as they down their
pints
while at home
ruddy wives knit
heavy woolens
as protection against
the moor's damp chill;
they gossip, brew tea
and tend to children
as women often will...
And these people have already
lived
their troubles
( had more than their share)
thus, thoughts turn to
the future, to better times
while the world over
others live out their troubles-
in Gaza and Aleppo,
Tegucigalpa, Ciudad Juárez...
and I wonder,
are we all like
Yeats'
" Pilgrim souls?"
seekers and wanderers
searchers after our
own
truths-
a bit of happiness
and peace
a way to forget
" troubles"
as we dance a jig-
( or a cumbia)
and we drown out
pints
wanting to silence-
this nonending violence.