Lonely in Ireland, since it was not home,
Strangeness made sense. The salt rebuff of speech,
Insisting so on difference, made me welcome:
Once that was recognised, we were in touch
 
Their draughty streets, end—on to hills, the faint
Archaic smell of dockland, like a stable,
The herring—hawker’s cry, dwindling, went
To prove me separate, not unworkable.
 
Living in England has no such excuse:
These are my customs and establishments
It would be much more serious to refuse.
Here no elsewhere underwrites my existence.

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Jonathan De Oliveira
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