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.
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