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| Night Walk by Elizabeth McClung |
No sign of Faughart on
the roadmap. Our dark
island kept itself to
itself, each high-hedged bóthar
headlit, the same as
another. Then, out of nowhere,
it came to us as a
long-acre of parked cars
we added to. Nothing
for it now but to go
with the cattle-press of
the procession, its shuffle
a low-voiced, slow,
inevitable river uphill.
Nobody minded us,
disbelievers suspended in the flow
of candles and wobbly
torch-beams. Our wariness lapsed,
shrinking as the
night-eye opened. Through an unhedged
gap,
a softly trumpeted,
familiar tune doodled
across clouded
moonfields. Forgotten, remembered:
Faith of Our Fathers.
As if it wasn't “if” but “when”.
And your whisper in my
ear: “Were going to Heaven.”
