the priest-house blues                                            (caution: long as hell)

everyone calls it the church house, because it was exactly that
built for the priests, right next to the church
and out the back behind the washing line there are two graves
for two of them who served their time right out
one headstone still readable, the other lost

there is no full-time priest here anymore, hasn’t been since the ‘70’s
so the church rents it out to reliable types, respectable types, and me

I walked up there last night from the one-horse pub, too much hard liquor for any driving ideas
have done it more than a few times over the eight months of being here
used to the easy sway of it

know I can get through one smoke before I get to the door
and usually stop at the top of the pub road to look back at the bay
try to paint it on my eyes for when I’ve gone

not long now, another month maybe, and my work here is ended
built something from nothing, built a crew of fifty men, a machinery fleet, roads, a quarry
and all the rest of it

made a job the men are proud of
still get phone calls every week from blokes wanting a start

those are the thoughts that get a man feeling good
so I stood still longer, to take the bay in under a half-hid quarter moon
the red cliffs on the other side of the bay, this late
were just a whitish night time glow coming and going as waves broke up on them
and from the pub came late night rings of laughter
people out on the smoker’s deck drinking hard luck on a dark night
backs turned to the sea, most been out on it all day making money from lobster pots, so no more sea-thinking to do

I felt my legs standing strong, felt my heart beat in my chest
knew I wouldn’t look so good in bright light
tired all the way to my boots
but work that doesn’t wear you down wouldn’t be work at all
so I don’t mind burning hard, if someone has to do it

standing too long, at that time of night, and thinking things like pride and past victories
can’t last
and breeds no more than vanity
before other thoughts start
thoughts of being 46 years old, so must be better than ½ way through this life
must be
and then the nights take another tone

I gave one more look to carve my eyes in to the scene, didn’t think about it because I knew it
those are the nights that will come back when all glories are past glories
and my legs have gone for good
when I’m another geezer in a gown, praying for a warm-handed nurse
and mushy peas
to go easy on my teeth

my secrets, my memories, my life, all my men scattered to the corners of their own lives
the gear we’re using now rusted and gone
the thing we’ve built just another wharf on just another island
with some local member of parliaments name on it
to commemorate the day it got opened, like he had a damn thing to do
except turn up and drink the free beer
on the day there was nothing left to make

and then it was time to keep walking, to get away from the scene
no use in those kinds of thoughts
that stink of bitterness, the whisky bile that drinking is no good for
so I took up the walking, toward the church house, under its one bare light
a lonely place, a small faded house next to the church, that no one goes to any more
where the priest never comes, except to be polite, part time god-fearing

I won't come back here once this job is done, nothing here but the job to do
and once it’s done, I'm done
but if I did
the sea would be the same
the late night pub would be the same
the hill walk would be the same
and the church house too
still waiting for something
that left years ago