Culture | Poem
The Last Carousers Gerard Smyth
One night after pubs and cinemas closed, when the actor at the stage door was only an actor’s ghost, you stepped into the fray of dawdling crowds, the last carousers. Then taking a route that only the locals knew – Mullinahack’s frosty avenue, you headed back to what you could not live without: your stack of rhythm’n’blues, rock songs, country dirges, – The Doors, The Stones, The Velvet Underground played so loud in the small hours they could have roused long-dead soldiers in Bully’s Acre, those on their pillows in the infirmary. Even Christ on his cross in the Church of St James could hear the words of The Wind Cries Mary.
New Humanist | Spring 2017