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Omagh


'You'll land me in Omagh,'
my mother groans,
at her wit's end.
Omagh is where the birdies are.
The out-of-mind drift
out of sight a while,
then back among us.
It is said that madness
runs in families.
We mooch around our gate
and think of it travelling at speed
in the shape of Miss Carty,
who, home again,
has joined the Dippers
and cycles the main road
in suspenders and knickers.


Frank Ormsby

Poetry Ireland Review

Issue 119


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