SNIPPET: Ciaran CARSON, Irish musician, poet and novelist, was born in Belfast (Antrim) No. Ireland in 1948 and has won awards in England and America. In the latter case, his books of poetry are published by the Wake Forest University, Winston-Salem, NC. Here are some excerpt from one of his books - "Last Night's Fun ..." pub. 1996 -- including a marvelous poem "Rubber Legs" by John LOUGHRAN. "We are in Garrison on the Fermanagh-Leitrim border. It is a late summer's evening. A gang of us -- flute-players Mick Hoy, Andy Dickson, Seamus Quinn and Deirdre Shannon; the concertina-player and singer Gabie McArdle and others - have been recruited from the pub. The Festival committee has switched on the fairy lights that drape the back of the lorry parked in the carpark; the lough beside reflects a still-enduring streak of sky, and the whole dusk seems to glow. Precarious on the makeshift mobile stage, we play a few tunes to the crowd that's scattered round in knots and dots and couples. Then Gabie sings 'Edmund on Lough Erne Shore'" - 'Each step I take by the winding river/Makes me reminded of days of yore.' The song ends; there is a little ripple of applause. Someone comes up and hand us cigarettes, and asks for 'The Harvest Home.' We sit and talk and smoke a while, then nick our cigarettes and start to play. Almost instantly, one knot of the crowd unravels and this old man in a topcoat and a hat and big boots tied with yellow laces steps out. From another dark annex of the carpark, his counterpart appears. By the time we hit the last part of the first part first time round, they're poised and ready - arms not stiff and rigid like the modern over-educated dancer, but relaxed, palms held outwards in a gesture some way between a welcome and a challenge. They face each other, one foot pointing outwards, while the crowd has shifted and coagulated round them in a focus of attention. But they have space, the dancers. As we hit the first part of the repeat, their feet begin to move. Their hands accompany the dance in little wristy arcane movements, thumbs alternating with their digits. Their feet are hardly off the ground as they heel and toe and tap, till it seems there is a skim of twilight shimmering between their boot-soles and the black wet tarmac. Loose change jingles in their pockets as they waver gravely in the pre-determined figures, facing, backing off and circling, making pirouettes and formal quarter-bows, catching one another's little fingers on occasions, sometimes going for a full hand-clasp, instantly and rhythmically released. They doppelganger one another. Nods and winks are witnessed as they undergo the subtle drama of the ceili house. They reinvent the past and all their past encounters; then the pattern comes to its conclusion. Four feet stand on terra firma for one instant, then they break apart and take the gait of normal human beings. Everyone's relaxed now. Cigarettes are passed around and lit. There is a surreptitious bottle full of who knows what. A buzz of conversation. Laughter shimmers out across Lough Melvin; the fairly lights are swaying, chinking gently in the desultory breeze..." RUBBER LEGS But then I mind Keenan and this man Brian McAleer, there was a big barn dance in it one night and the thing got going that good and Brian came out of the kitchen. Och, he was going on maybe seventy years of age at the time. But a light, thin man, you know, and always with good spirit. Great singer too. And him and Keenan hit the floor for a reel. Well, if you seen them two men dancing, boy, they were dancing from when they were young fellows, you know, in their youth, and still this was a great meeting for them to meet again two old men, you know, they'd been dancing whenever they were young fellows. I'll tell you what they done too and they sung together and they herded, when there was no ditches and no fences about and you went out and herded your cattle the whole day and him and Brian was raised together. That was Keenan's farm there and McAleer's farm was here and the two men herding on the one mountain together and they sung together the whole day and exchanged songs. And Brian and him going out that night on the floor and if you seen them boys, you would just think their legs was rubber. I could mind Brian McAleer, you want to see that man and him over eighty, and the thin light legs of him, and I can see him yet. And Keenan was down below, and Keenan was a small man, a small tight wee man, sort of wee pernickety man, you know, and he was down there dancing. And Keenan and McAleer was up and then they would change places. Well, you want to see McAleer; you'd think the legs was rubber, for a man like that, no pains nor arthritis nor rheumatism nor damn what else. He was quivering and carrying on with his feet and Keenan was down below and Keenan was putting in nice fancy steps, you know. Ah Jesus, you want to see them two men dancing, you could have played for them for a week. -- John Loughran