Reconstructions. Steafán Hanvey

      The finale, when it comes,

      will bring the house down,

      confounding the critics once again

      while giving encouragement

      to dire authors and their impresarios.

      *****

      As a young pup,

      filled with a shameful giddy-delight,

      I used to ride shotgun

      to such fires with my Da.

      Often arriving before the tenders,

      we got to see the firemen

      tumble down from their cab

      and stand in a hands-on-hips tableau,

      allowing themselves to be enthralled,

      briefly, civilian-like,

      by the spectacle before them.

      And then how they’d briskly rub their faces

      to break the spell, drowning out

      all bewitching sounds by shouting

      assessments, instructions, and unholy oaths

      in accents as thick as any farl

      that has ever graced an Ulster fry.

      On nights such as these,

      The ‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!’ hotline crackled

      before going dead.

      But most of all, my cheeks remember

      the stovish heat, and how my clothes and hair

      carried home a thermogenic musk.

      *****

      Aye, Boyle’s was a Roman candle that night.

      After all these years,

      it still burns bright in black and white.

      Hard to believe this was taken in the Seventies –