Now, not a word of a lie, true lover.
Not a word of a lie…

Once, five-and-thirty years ago,
I saw the Devil in Sligo Town.
Strange to speak of it now,
from the hush of an Australian night,
forest whispering soft about me.

But then, under Benbulben’s skirts,
in the green-wet country of saints,
among moss-scalped stones
and the narrow pilgrim ways
between church door and pub,
it seemed no stranger than the rain.

I was busking for pennies,
for the flat, silver pounds
that might turn to chips and gravy,
a pint, or a night in the White House Inn;
or else to squander in the warehouse,
where the German tramp and his dog
dreamed amid the broken rafters.

Cold evening.
Leather gloves cut at the fingers
so my whistle could sing,
though frost slowed every tune.
A small crowd gathered,
pointing at the window
of the shop for Respectable Country Ladies.

And then,
they parted.
The Devil came forth,
a blouse snagged on one horn.
Whether torn from a rack
or a lady herself
I could not tell.

No chaos, no crosses raised,
no glyphs chalked in haste,
only the chip shop man
murmuring to the Virgin.
Perhaps the Devil
was no stranger to Sligo streets.

Naked, solemn, absurd,
his gait heavy with the drag
of leathery burden,
his slotted eyes glinting
with faint amusement,
he passed me by
and turned to the Garavogue.

Gone.
And the town, subdued,
took up its business again,
as if nothing at all
had passed among them.

…And not a word of a lie, true lover
Not a word of a lie.