Joy McDowell

Once, in Belfast, I found an ancestor

living alone in a blue-shuttered house.

I fed the old man tales of my father

while downing ale and spitting fish bones in a pub.

Through a wee window I spied two spruce boys

riding a mammoth hog on cobblestones.

The pure Irishman said he saw nothing.

Those sassy boys were laughing up a roar.

Being played by my sunset great uncle

was okay by me. Three Guinness rounds gone,

with Black Mountain rising against our backs.

Then Uncle shared terrible truth. Scotland.

He was true born in the shrieking highlands.

Lies, murder, your clan blood rises from a plaid fire.