Wild Mountain Thyme

Christmas day.

We’re all at my gran’s house,

The full, Catholic-size family,

Cramped into the front room

Like chestnuts in an oven.

Bums ache on floors,

Perch on arms of chairs,

Settle into laps of relatives.

Fields of Athenry tails off,

(Too slow,

Too sad)

Leaving us to decide on

Another song.

Granny’s keeping herself busy

Making Gaelics in the kitchen,

Keeping her mind together

While we’re all fixing

Absences with cream, whiskey,

Guinness, the whole room

A-glow.

A postcard with the robin

And the snow and the fire

And the misting-up Dickensian window.

Bravely, someone intones

The first notes to

Wild Mountain Thyme,

And our voices warm

And swell around

The sunken armchair left

Empty since last December,

Just over twelve months now.

Our voices warm the space around it,

Hide it amongst the blooming heather,

Warm it,

Pick around it.

Our voices warm the space.

Our voices,

Warm.