CLABBER: THE POET AT THREE
“That’s clabber! Clutching clabber
sucks caddies down,” said my father harshly
while I was stomping happily
in the ditch on the side of the road.
“Climb out of that clabber pit
before you catch your death of it!”
But I went on splattering and splashing,
and scattering whoops of joy:
“Clabber! Clabber! I belong to it,”
although the word meant nothing to me
until I heard a squelch in my wellies
and felt through every fibre of my duds
the cold tremors of awakening knowledge.
O elected clabber, you chilled me to the bone.
(Clábar is the Irish word for mud.)