Two Poems

Alex Higgins, Snooker Player (1994)
(with love and regards to William Trevor)

This is the face, this is the Irish face,
that brings us so much Grace and such disgrace,
as sad as ends of books, once labelled FINIS,
dodgy and doubtful as ten pints of Guinness,
wayward and alien, acquainted too with sorrow -
bigoted Spain to Bible-toting Borrow?

You could say all of this and note the lines
that stray across the forehead. Fighting, fines.
The history is there. Impatient slams
against to-morrows that don't bring him jams.
No, never jam to-day. But roaring pots
that go for outside luck. And once had lots.

There is a something wistful in the eyes,
little boy lost, confused; and some surprise
...