Oran Domhnall Iain

He was a strange fellow for our village
with a peculiar reason for his fame.
There'd never been an ISBN attached to his name,
no play of his had been performed on stage,

and what was worse, there was no word of verse
ever written by him, no epitaph
to accompany a relative being carried to the dark
of the graveyard on a black and shining hearse.

No words of love for Catriona Ban
or Peigi. Even when he was affected by the nonsense
lyrics of loud rock songs in his adolescence,
he just failed to understand

the impulse that drives most of us to song
from time to time. The lark's surge and fall.
The sweep of waves. The call
of home. It's as if he doesn't quite belong with us.

Instead, he's been banging on and on about a wall
to be built between his croft and Mexico.
It's at times like this we know for sure
he doesn't really come from here at all.

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