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Malt, melancholy and Mayo

Here I sit perched on a bar stool in Boston, a sprig of shamrock in my lapel. Like a poet in exile, I’m marooned in the quiet realm of recollection. On this day the pathways of my mind are strewn with memories of Mayo. It’s Saint Patrick’s Day and it’s the dreams of Ireland in which my mind does dwell. The procession of green pageantry passes by the window. Spectators assemble in huddled anticipation as men and maidens of the Gael, freckled and fair march with swagger and pride. I stare out the window and my mind does wander, across the perimeter beyond the yonder. I lift the amber jar in silent salute to old Hibernia and to my fellow diaspora wherever they reside. I see Mayo now through a pitcher of beer and with a swig and cig the picture becomes clear.

 

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