Blaise Gilburd

Blaise Gilburd is a young writer currently studying for his Leaving Cert. in Galway. Born in England but moved to Ireland before the age of one, Blaise was raised out in the countryside and from that gained a passion for the local nature and folklore. He is previously unpublished but hopes to show his passion for both the countryside and the colorful characters of small towns through his writing.

Conversation With a Drunk Man

He’s stumbling by now,
That dishevelled man,
Falling slowly through the dark.
I think he’s drunk.
A woollen scarf,
Moss green as his trousers
And the common growth along the pavement,
Hangs loose from his neck.
Perched high on his head
A battered peaked cap,
Fabric peeling
Where multiple shoddy stitches once held it.
His clothes are that of work,
Stained with the familiar mark of the bog
Though on his shoulders is a suit jacket
And in the pocket a cornflower,
Bluer than the most tropical of seas.

He holds a can close
In to his chest
And in the other gnarled hand,
Scarred and ridged,
He holds a copy of Hamlet
And a book whose spine is so ravaged
No name was to be seen.

He passes slowly before me
And grins a bare grin,
Extending a tar stained hand
It chills me deep within.

He stops,
And with clouded eyes
Stomps his muddied mountain boots.
He mumbles a stream of words
Which tip over his lips
And cascade into nothingness below,
Not a one do I catch.

He then looks east
And with a lurch
Pulls from his pocket
A packet of cigarettes.
The scratch then hiss
Of his fifth match
Seems to echo in the night.

He smiled inward
With love and a thought to himself
And swayed off in the darkness.
A silhouette followed
By a bright speck of fire,
An orange star in the night
Those bog lights we hear of
Stuck to the man of their making

© 2019 Blaise Gilburd