The Gallaghers of Derry
By C.L. Nehmer
May 21, 1932
Mr. Gallagher's cattle feel it first—
a red buzzing that cracks open the sky,
a great shadow gliding across their hides
like a ghost. It brings the children
running. The farmhands, too, are curious,
first to greet the curly-haired woman
all streaked with gasoline and go get it
come from America,
come from America, alone,
inquiring of the nearest line
to telephone her husband.
Mrs. Gallagher prepares a stew,
lays out clothing, fresh sheets,
demands nothing of this sensible
stranger, only wonders at how she came,
through the banshee storm of lightning, the ceiling
of low-hanging fog, to be vested
in Ireland's rolling green.
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