Mystery stalks the traffic now.
I turn but it’s gone to follow.
Futilely I try to grasp what’s
left of you here Mary Shannon
ethereal grey my best guess.
Rain calls as we head West in the
opposite apposite fearful
direction whence you fled famine,
and kept on fleeing Erin’s wrath
anon to face more predators,
like worming war and choking mills
and burying children you bore.
You were here were you, weren’t you,
in harsh Victorian twilight?
Not yet the you I later knew –
the census is silent on that.