Far Far Away


If you were buried in Faulmore

You’d have no need of heaven

You’d have to say

You were already there

A place of mountain sea and sky

Shining sun at evening

O how happy just to lie

Now no sense of grieving

 

But beauty by itself we know

Won’t put food on the table

And Irish men just had to go

Wherever they were able

And building sites in Britain

And always on the road

Earning a crust before you’re dust

Carrying a heavy load

 

And the load wasn’t just bricks you know

There’s a thing the heavy heart

And lonely days in nowhere

Having got the start

A man’s sad look stares out at me

His life is almost spent

He left his home in Ireland

And never pitched his tent

 

Brian Fahy

11 September 2021

 

+ At breakfast time I take my tea and ‘read the papers’ from my computer. Today I saw a picture of the cemetery at Faulmore in all its wistful beauty, and I read a piece on the RTE website about the Irish Diaspora, by Gillian O’Brien. In it she shows us a photograph, the haunting face of Don McCullin’s Homeless Irishman, Spitalfields, London, 1970. And so, my poem.

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