Martin Galvin

The devils.
They’re out in the yard again
having their likeness took.
You’ve never seen such a pair
before or after, it’s plain enough.

He’s a Kerryman, like his Da
from the look of him, the slight
shoulder tilt from hauling net.
She’s Mayo enough to make her
worth the knowing if you have the wit.

It’s not a word they’ll be saying,
not a peep, not with the camera listening.
But you can read what’s on, can’t you?
They’ve merry mischief brewing itself
like country tea in their hearts.

It’s Easter Sunday after all, the trees
are tickled with bloom to tell you that.
Lent’s behind them like a broken stick
they’ll not be needing more this spring,
the soft light promising easy rain
and devilment to be done before
they need to garlic the roast.

You can tell from their eyes they’ve something up,
their lips, the way they tighten toward a letting loose.

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