Roast leg of lamb  
on one of the last Sundays 
they say he has left. 
He takes more gravy, 
steers the talk along 
his years - at fourteen 
a ferryboy at the oars 
out of Howth to Ireland's Eye, 
the boat blown, broaching 
with twelve daytrippers, 
and blind with fright 
he chanced a channel ledged 
with rock, and rushes of water 
carried the boat into the calm 
lee of the island 

where he opened his eyes 
to a sun that sparkled 
a row of tin badges 
bought two a penny 
pinned to his shirt, 
and a little girl 
to her father said 
he must have won them rowing - 
is the luck he remembers 
as he spoons gravy 
on the last of the lamb.