Through Oxmantown 

I walked but saw no ancient lights 

or herdsman with his fattened cattle, 

no trace of those who were founders 

of the place, who had to cross 

the watery divide, build on soft ground.

And now new blow-ins have arrived

but there is still some vestige of the days 

that time works hard to obliterate.  

An old Dane haunts the parish, a renegade 

from the annals whose axe 

broke stones on the stony road. 

That Old Dane, a mad-eyed stranger 

in wolfskin and a mask, came to taste 

the Liffeytide in Anna Livia’s mouth 

and stayed to live a second life,

perfect the art of exile, cunning, hatred.

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