Hawthorn hedgerows separated their fields.
Alice often found Towser lapping
From Jim's cupped hand,
At his hill well.
Her brothers fished Jim's salmon-rich creek.
To get her animal she walked through the bushes,
Drank his water.
They decided to wed.
He poured a new kitchen floor;
Chickens and sows,
Sons and daughters arrived,
Through famine and taxes
They prospered, survived.
Over the evening pint,
The lads grumbled about the Travellers
Camped off the road to Jim's.
They're gypsies, spilled Jim,
No different than him, pointing to Frank, beneath a tin:
Guinness is good for you.
I passed them at tea, they were eating my fish.
I nodded Okay, and they sang, "Make a wish!"
How comes it to pass,
Is anyone's guess.
Jim left walking for home,
A dark journey, alone.
The night sky was clear,
Jim loved the fresh air.
In his line he saw
The gypsy's red fire.
He was offered a drink,
Being a purveyor of craic,
The stars glided eastward,
Alice watched them that night,
Waiting for Jim to come back.
He rose with a scratch,
And a Guiness-stained yawn,
And the smell of a smokey,
Fire-haired woman.
For seventeen years no words were spoken,
Alice was redolent,
The holy of holies lay open,
The body's been stolen.
In the stillness of night,
Alone in her bed,
Jim lay beside her;
Her man was dead.
One fish, one wish,
And all was unsaid,
An unspeakable silence
Envelope the dead.
A wish is a fish,
Alive in deep water;
If you hook it, release it,
It'll swim to another.
Jim died alone
In his house, not his home;
His wish transpired
By fish and his fire.
