Posted by: Peadar Ban | April 7, 2017

Rushmore in the Rain


Gentles, the river that runs beside the house is about four feet from flood tide.  It rained like hell the past three or four days, and washed away two or three feet of snow just rotting horribly everywhere.  It’s nice to see that go, but…   There was more upstream than here, and it’s on the way now.

Springtime in Cow Hampshire, even in the cities.  It’s Mud Season, too, soon to be followed by Black Fly Season.  I remember being up in the Northeast Kingdom many years ago for a few days breaking balls with a couple of state cops.  I made the mistake of wearing shoes, when everyone else was wearing something Dan’l Boone would feel right at home in; something shot and skinned only a few months before.  Ain’t nothing prettier than a toothless, fuzzy footed, old guy or girl.  Well, you never really know.  You know?.

Anyway, the bride and I were on the way home after looking for the New Hampshire Queen, rumored to be sailing over the falls in the Nashua River.  (Remind me to tell you about the fresh water sharks which spawn up river just about now.)  It was raining, of course.  Down by the freight yards, where most of the illegals live in abject poverty, we drove past four men standing on the street.  It took only seconds.  They could have been anywhere in age from 30 to 80.  I saw a lot of these guys when I was in Ohio, too, some even fishing on the Muskingum.

One of them looked at me and I looked at him.

I had what follows mostly finished by the time we got home, and thought I would share it with youse.  Think of us on the Harlem



He was a boy once, and with his friends ran

Up hills and down.  His thick legs, his arms sun

Browned.  His broad bright face, his smile like sunrise

In the long gone time when he was so young.


Now he stands statue still on the cold street

In company with three old men;

The four a living Rushmore in the rain;

Relics, monuments, time and rain chiseled

Hardly noticed.  There are no tourists here

No rest stops, photographs or souvenirs.


No, it’s just my wife and I passing by

To another place from another place

Us in our car in the cold April rain.


I see-him in his rough clothes, his rough face

From which all but his eyes youth’s erased.

The rest a skin weathered cliff, gray, deep creased.


Through rain spattered glass we meet..  Our old eyes

Link and hold a second, two.  We both smile

And in cold rain run old hills a while.

PEG    4/7/17




  1. Thanks good to hear from you.

    • You cannot know how good I is to hear from you. You can be reached at the same email?


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