I only came here for the coddle and hard dry bread,
But this crowd has swept me along into the froth
Of 1904, the band playing as if on a promenade
And straw boaters floating on the print of sunlight

Like sycamore wings. The L.E. James Joyce on site
And incongruous as Trieste, though all my thoughts
Are of boats and children and ponds. White
As our pale hands, homes are glued to the spot

Where money still resides. Where Jesuits fought
With their consciences, the children of privilege
Will be-sport themselves still, taking for excuse

A book and not ‘Throwaway’ in the Cup at Ascot.
It is like somebody brought a winner into the village:

The day a golden rosette, his book such good news.

Thomas McCarthy's latest work is Poetry, Memory and the Party (Gallery Press, 2021)