Herring
Like a different part
of the town, she said,
The Faythe, William Street,
where the fishing people lived.
October to January
was herring season,
sixpence a dozen
when the season was good.
Brought in at night
they shone like coloured glass,
a fresh herring is stiff,
a limp fish is a stale one.
Sometimes lorries came
and always hawkers carts
to take them round the town
Rosslares! Rosslares!
Fresh Rosslares!
Mary O’Brien (from Dicing With the Tide, The Works, Wexford)
Poems
Ag an Slab ThuaidhMarch 24, 2022 - 6:12 pm
Prophecies: EdenvaleMarch 24, 2022 - 5:48 pm
FAOI CHEILTMarch 30, 2018 - 10:06 am
COPÓGMarch 29, 2018 - 10:05 am
Golden BoughsMarch 27, 2018 - 9:53 am
The Visiting Cat Discovers Sean-NósMarch 26, 2018 - 10:11 am
The Bees in the PrivetMarch 26, 2018 - 10:09 am
Fantastic LightMarch 26, 2018 - 10:04 am
EquinoxMarch 26, 2018 - 10:01 am
HerringMarch 22, 2018 - 10:07 am
Contact
Fill in the form below to contact me.