Casualty

By Seamus Heaney

He would drink by himself 

And raise a weathered thumb 

Towards the high shelf, 

Calling another rum 

And blackcurrant, without 

Having to raise his voice, 

Or order a quick stout 

By a lifting of the eyes 

And a discreet dumb-show 

Of pulling off the top; 

At closing time would go 

In waders and peaked cap 

Into the showery dark, 

A dole-kept breadwinner 

But a natural for work. 

I loved his whole manner, 

Sure-footed but too sly, 

His deadpan sidling tact, 

His fisherman's quick eye 

And turned observant back. 

Incomprehensible 

To him, my other life. 

Sometimes on the high stool, 

Too busy with his knife 

At a tobacco plug 

And not meeting my eye, 

In the pause after a slug 

He mentioned poetry. 

We would be on our own 

And, always politic 

And shy of condescension, 

I would manage by some trick 

To switch the talk to eels 

Or lore of the horse and cart 

Or the Provisionals. 

But my tentative art 

His turned back watches too: 

He was blown to bits 

Out drinking in a curfew 

Others obeyed, three nights 

After they shot dead 

The thirteen men in Derry. 

PARAS THIRTEEN, the walls said, 

BOGSIDE NIL. That Wednesday 

Everyone held 

His breath and trembled. 

II 

It was a day of cold 

Raw silence, wind-blown 

Surplice and soutane: 

Rained-on, flower-laden 

Coffin after coffin 

Seemed to float from the door 

Of the packed cathedral 

Like blossoms on slow water. 

The common funeral 

Unrolled its swaddling band, 

Lapping, tightening 

Till we were braced and bound 

Like brothers in a ring. 

But he would not be held 

At home by his own crowd 

Whatever threats were phoned, 

Whatever black flags waved. 

I see him as he turned 

In that bombed offending place, 

Remorse fused with terror 

In his still knowable face, 

His cornered outfaced stare 

Blinding in the flash. 

He had gone miles away 

For he drank like a fish 

Nightly, naturally 

Swimming towards the lure 

Of warm lit-up places, 

The blurred mesh and murmur 

Drifting among glasses 

In the gregarious smoke. 

How culpable was he 

That last night when he broke 

Our tribe's complicity? 

'Now, you're supposed to be 

An educated man,' 

I hear him say. 'Puzzle me 

The right answer to that one.' 

III 

I missed his funeral, 

Those quiet walkers 

And sideways talkers 

Shoaling out of his lane 

To the respectable 

Purring of the hearse... 

They move in equal pace 

With the habitual 

Slow consolation 

Of a dawdling engine, 

The line lifted, hand 

Over fist, cold sunshine 

On the water, the land 

Banked under fog: that morning 

I was taken in his boat, 

The screw purling, turning 

Indolent fathoms white, 

I tasted freedom with him. 

To get out early, haul 

Steadily off the bottom, 

Dispraise the catch, and smile 

As you find a rhythm 

Working you, slow mile by mile, 

Into your proper haunt 

Somewhere, well out, beyond... 

Dawn-sniffing revenant, 

Plodder through midnight rain, 

Question me again.