Graig Sack Co

by Eamonn Wall

Brick, mortar, frame and floorboard haze
Burst sunlight ancient airs as the Clancys
& Tommy Makem roar from sack store
wireless — workers rounding out racy tunes
with homespun lyrics germane to females
of the town.  Burlap by thousands lined
and mounded along driest dun wooden
floors, guarded by Rover, an old Red Setter
for whom haste is an outdated term.  Cold
granite of St. Aidan’s casts shadows
over work and play.  Every act is sanctified.

In the yard’s sunlit space men break to savor
sandwiches served with mustard hot
as a maiden’s breath inhaled outside July’s
Scarawalsh’s marquee.  Like my ancient
grandfather, men pull on pipes whilst
hocking hard, spitting still polite so long
as the actor is male and well-advanced in years.

For barley & salmon, there is but one short
season.  Each weaves to rhythms I did not hear
held snugly then in youth’s eternity.  Ears
float on summer’s breezes sweet and low.
The Slaney drums homeward spinning flow
salmon floating secrets we have yet to grow.

Graig’s tough men caress burlap sacks gently
as they will dry their daughters’ faces
with soft towels, Saturday evening darkening
into night, cleaned clothes laid out and ironed
for the cathedral’s early Mass.  I lie stock-still
amongst a wave of tired boys: flat on sacks,
counting joists, until stirred and shaken,
Graig’s Sack Co. becomes Dunnes Stores.