Reconstructions. Steafán Hanvey
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The finale, when it comes,
will bring the house down,
confounding the critics once again
while giving encouragement
to dire authors and their impresarios.
*****
As a young pup,
filled with a shameful giddy-delight,
I used to ride shotgun
to such fires with my Da.
Often arriving before the tenders,
we got to see the firemen
tumble down from their cab
and stand in a hands-on-hips tableau,
allowing themselves to be enthralled,
briefly, civilian-like,
by the spectacle before them.
And then how they’d briskly rub their faces
to break the spell, drowning out
all bewitching sounds by shouting
assessments, instructions, and unholy oaths
in accents as thick as any farl
that has ever graced an Ulster fry.
On nights such as these,
The ‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!’ hotline crackled
before going dead.
But most of all, my cheeks remember
the stovish heat, and how my clothes and hair
carried home a thermogenic musk.
*****
Aye, Boyle’s was a Roman candle that night.
After all these years,
it still burns bright in black and white.
Hard to believe this was taken in the Seventies –
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