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He was seven and I was six, my Brendon Gallacher.He was Irish and I was Scottish, my Brendon Gallacher.His father was in prison; he was a cat burglar.
It's New Year, 1979, at Funderland in the RDS in Dublin. In the cold calculation of the January air, a young girl tries to talk
I like to stay upand listenwhen big people talkingjumbie stories
I does feelso tingly and excitedinside me
But when my mother say“Girl, time for bed”
Nobody can see my name on me.My name is insideand all over me, unseenlike other people also keep it.Isn't my name magical?
Eyes as wide as continents brim wih the water between.
Seeks a different future. Looks back on what has been.