BY

 STEPHEN BURKE JUNIOR

Streets of steaming beef spread like a smoking army,

And men shuffled and coughed in the breaking dawn.

Pieces of string kept old oilskins and withered coats wrapped tightly,

And covered rubber boots that stamped the ground impatiently.

Until some gentleman in fresh white coat and hat

came and inspected the tails and adjoining parts,

and eased to the front gazing at teeth keenly, and eventually, he asked the price.

Voices argued in the bleak morning light,

and uncle tried his best to chaffer,

good money for the grouped rumbling meat and spitted hands rose strongly in agreement.

The echoes of meeting skins clinched the deal.

Then the animals were driven through the packed town,

we struggled to reach the station; and ash plants belted the hides punishingly;

till loaded on a goods’ train.

Destination, County Meath.

Where the Jobber’s kept rich pastures,

and cattle fattened for better markets.

In wide and green fields sweetly grazing,

their way across the border and the sea.

Uncle with money drank pints of Guinness,

and loud words rang on the sawdust, carpeted pub floor,

and in a corner I stood shyly.

Between men who lived and fought by the swinging power,

of lashing, large, soil toughened hands.