Picture (A family of black immigrants, 50s, on a wet street in Dublin.)

by

Adam Parry.      

 

He had bought her a first communion dress

on Tuesday.

Tuesday was hot, hot a sunny day.

In the shop it shone out from the window.

Sunday! Sunday rained.

They had to walk to the church

in the rain almost the first out the door the dress lost it’s brilliantine,

another new Communion dress, faded, mossed over

by the time they got to the Church she seemed a coal-miner;

wet as her Dad and Leo in the pram in.

 

After the Communion they were walking home and the rain fell

on them even harder. The street was deserted and shops shut. Awful grey streets

a dirt windows, silhouetted forms huddled ones and twos

brighter, out shone the little girl’s communion dress.

 

In the shop windows while they swam against the tides of the rain

and the street was so, so long.

 

I wanted to cry, but that would make the rain, rain harder and home seemed

impossible, faraway place wet as I was.