When they tore down the wall,
by some unknown hand,
a newspaper page.
And behind a wall of old, old books,
which I always meant to look through, but never found the time,
I fancy from the same era.
Faded and still so beautiful.
Too aged to remove in one,
I fought to keep a little piece.
And have it now,
to remember these workmen of old,
who walked this floor,
and knew the view from my backdoor,
and signed their names on a post
and hid it within these walls.
I'll keep this too,
for you, whoever you were,
James Kiernan, Kilcoole Station. 1928.