Paddy Johnson

Unexpected and unannounced
and always through the back door,
he appeared in the captive den,
and we were in awe and glad.
This silent leathery creature,
this mystic, with his tattoos picked out in India,
who brought renewed life, renewed hope,
and youthfulness, to mother's features.
Slack of posture and fleet of foot
and with no time to barter,
Paddy, who still was what he had always been,
took his place in the mess.

"Breakfast for two".
"No! That's two adults and one child,
three breakfasts".
"Out of the way!"
"Yes, toast, lots of toast!"
"Can someone see to these dirty dishes
they're piling up like crazy?"
"No! Mr. Weir hasn't appeared yet."
"Here! give that teapot a wipe, its filthy!
And you! upstairs and scrub your face
and wash behind your ears."

And all this while, Paddy -
silent and attentive in the background.

Potatoes peeled, yet again!
Lunches served, yet again!
Dishes and pots and pans washed, yet again!
Floors scrubbed, yet again!
And the deep-fat fryer stirring.

And all this while the sun, barely noticed,
creeping from East to West,
until a shimmer of light on the dusted window,
makes less bleak
the high wall opposite.
And mother, deprived of the sea view,
the golden sand, and the long arm of the Giant's Causeway,
delights in a few wallflowers.

Then with suppers served, and lovers
and would be lovers heading for the dance,
and children, toppled by the waves, exhausted and asleep,
Paddy, alone at the kitchen table, studies "form",
until fearing out bedtime, and by entreaty, he recalls
hot sun, strange insects, snake charmers and bayonets,
while rolling a cigarette, tapping it end to end,
and placing it in readiness behind his ear.
Then, in our very own kitchen, and just for us
he chews razor-blades, swallows and spits fire.
And for an encore, with a frantic moving of his wrinkled hand
twangs the Jew's Harp into life.

Unexpected and unannounced
and always through the back gate
and down the dreary lane,
he would escape this captive den;
and we were ponderous and sad.
This silent leathery creature;
this mystic, with his tattoos picked out in India,
who, having come from nowhere,
was gone nowhere. But,
who in his going, was everywhere.
In the shining black-leaded range.
In the hot coals glowing with an intensity not noticed before.
And in the plates, stacked ready for breakfast.

And when I, standing on the steps, inspected the brasses
gleaming in the morning light, I sensed,
that only the dawn, and Paddy
knew of his secret.
__________

© Cormac McCloskey