Perhaps the sun now shudders and goes down
one island further along.
Perhaps the sea remembers its shawl
one inch higher up the sea-wall.
Perhaps the big spheres in the early grasses
the beads of sweat on gravestone faces

swoop fractionally faster to Earth.
Perhaps no one goes in to Seán's bar anymore.
Perhaps Mac has had it up to here

with abalones, with the TV thumping,
with a brother who can't hear his own swallow.
Perhaps the band in O'Rourke's has learnt how to play.

Perhaps M&aactue;irt&iactue;n has scoured all the scurf off his boat
and Cha, in ramming it, ramming it home,
no longer shouts 'it's a gooo-al!'
Perhaps Dundass has taken his son by the throat.

Perhaps Taig is no longer quite Taigeen
and his parents no longer mention heaven
and where the rusty gate hangs on to its indecision
perhaps Lemass has compressed his whole fortune

into an Eden of crag and nettle.
Perhaps the world no longer stops at Jack's gate
and strolls out of town by a different route
and the ass has stepped from its long-standing mound
and the trees by the stream make a lazier sound.

Perhaps the houses at night flicker
                                  rather than shine
and the car-lights move in an unbroken line.

Perhaps they have forgotten.

Or where window sweeps and car skids in
where shore gleams and shirt buttons down
where dog spills, cloud cools and pub steams
where pier clicks, boat leans, wheel buckles and wire hums,
perhaps nothing at all has changed.

Perhaps then you will stay.