Upon surging waters of swelling tide, canopied beneath an azure sky,
across the heads of swaying, sweating travellers, I yearn to see.
Envious of the hooded man, draped against the window pane,
beer slopping, from lager can clasped by unworked hands,
his moaning mouth, foul words blight my soul.
Stale breath courses around the carriage, a baby cries
above the muffled chatter, cloaked in my despondency, a silent groan.
Tunnelled echoes, in darkness sealed, I close my eyes.
Carefree children frolic on the sand dunes of my dreams,
memories faded by the span of ageing, waves.
Screech of braking wheels, shuddering carriage, rustling bags.
Whispering bodies of seated ones, stir,
push against the fragile tempers of comrades stood.
Eyes cast towards freedom’s door, and the hooded one,
tips can one last time and curses those that made him poor.
Norman Morrow was a child of the sixties, but too young to enjoy the excesses of that era. Born in the west of Ireland, he now lives outside Dublin with his wife and seven children, no room for cats or dogs.
Fly fishing has been a lifelong passion. He coaches underage Rugby and Hurling and spends most weekends driving the kids to matches.