Cork

It was cold and wet
on French’s Quay
the day I left, the engine
still running and the car
pulled in as close to the kerb
as the port of a ship
docking at the pier;
punctured tyres
from the shut-down factory
scraped the quay-wall
where the rats
had come ashore.

In our submarine town
the river rained down
from above. A lifebelt
worked its way free
from a mooring-post
across the street
from Forde’s Funeral Home.
Corporation gutters
were choked with seaweed
and dogs stowed away
in coalbags, flushed
out with the tide
through Passage West.

The back of the car
was warm as a kitchen,
watertight as a fish’s arse
until a single swollen drop
fell on the windscreen,
trickled through a crack
in the reinforced glass
and along the bridge
of our captain’s nose
where he sat impervious
to all in the front seat.

When the riverbanks broke
behind my father’s eyes
tears gushed
through the eye of a needle
and Jesus wept over
my submerged head;
tin buckets and gallon cans
couldn’t bail me out,
as church-spires
and railway-lines crumpled,
millstones, milestones,
and hearts like stone
gave way to the rising water.

I couldn’t wait to get away
from the insubstantial earth
that made me,
before the last drop
was squeezed
from my bleeding heart,
before love wrapped itself
round my neck
and my sinking heart
went under.

Gaol Cross

It was threatening rain all day
when my father left his father’s house,
my grandmother clutched her handkerchief
on the palm of her hand
so the broody sky wouldn’t wet her cheek.


His Sunday best was pressed
for the journey, heart shut tight
and a double knot on the twine
that kept him and his cardboard
suitcase together. When he checked

The knot on his wrist
the eyes in the back of his head
saw Tomás Óg Mac Curtain
marched in front of the house,
head and shoulders above

his escort as the greatcoat
of the Free State hid the handcuffs
that chained him to the future.
He heard again from the walls
of the old gaol a volley of shots

like a flurry of windfalls, a day
he was out with the boys
in the orchard behind the Western Star
a man was shot in the river-field,
on the run from his place

in the history books. He heard
the shouts of all their mothers
loud as a clatter of binlids,
calling the boy-troop home,
his own name sworn like an oath

for all the world to hear.
He turned a deaf ear to the old
woman as he tightened the knot
on his wrist and placed the stamp
of the immigrant on his case,

the woollen rug that marked him
more clearly than his thick Cork accent.
The day my father left
there was an orange glow over Sunday’s Well
as if Easter bonfires raged again
or mattresses burned above the prison-gates.

A silver trout, bright as a spinning coin,
abandoned its element
under Sacred Heart Bridge

as I crossed over
in my father’s footsteps
making for Shannon Airport.

When I looked back across the water
the last light was dying
in my grandmother’s eyes

as she stood like a statue in the dark
looking after us from the foot of the Cross.

About Time

She was always late
as if someone had taken
a part of her time
and then mislaid it
in the back of a couch
or a crack in the wall
behind the fireplace,
she couldn’t go on
till she found it again
in the gap between now and then.

Her husband corrected the fault
he thought was part of her nature,
turning the house upside down
to make up for time lost
between the measured stroke
of his watchful heart
and the irregular beat of hers,
never on time in a world
run down like clockwork.

She’s late again
and we’re packed
in the back of a car
in disarray, like the inside
of a broken watch,
on our way, I imagine,
to eleven o’clock Mass.

In a clamour of bells
and blowing horns
rainwater spits
on the windscreen
and wipers smear their sleeves
across the blinking window.

The driver stands
at the foot of the stairs
in the hall, constant
as a line from the Bible
as the sun goes down
on his left wrist.

His prayer is quiet
as the leaves
of a missal
as he waits
for the clock to strike.

Silk of the Kine

I remembered my Grandad
back in the stone age
in that prehistoric shed
coaxing light
from the hard teat
of an old cow

when flight number El 32
turned its dripping snout
for home, slow
as the white-backed heifer
that took one last look
at those faraway hills
that will never give milk

before climbing the ramp
of the old brown truck
to the slaughterhouse.

Oisín

As soon as I climbed
from the sky-horse
and set foot on the ground
I saw my reflection
brought down to size
in your narrowed eyes.

My breath quickened
as you wrapped
your arms around me,
bones became straw
under the weight
of your welcome home.

By the time we reached
the revolving door
your shadow was too much
for my puny shoulders
and the world without end
I’d left behind on the runway
gathering speed
overTuskar Rock.

Bhí sé fuar fliuch
ar French’s Quay
is mé ag triall aris
ón mbaile, an chairt
ina seasamh chomh dlúth
leis an gcosán le bord soithigh
buailte le caladh
is seanbhoinn stractha
ón monarchain dúnta
ag scríobadh falla na cé
san áit inar tháinig
na francaigh i dtír.

I gcathair na gcuan
is an abhainn ag titim
ón spéir bhí fáinne tarrthála
scortha dá chuaille
trasna na sráide
ó theach na sochraide,
bhí sclogphíopaí an Bhardais
á dtachtadh ag feamainn bhruscair
a bhrúcht aníos sa tsruth faoi thír
is madraí báite
á dtabhairt chun siúil
i málaí guail
tliar farraige amach
i dtreo an PhasáisteThiar.

Bhí cúl na cairte
chomh cluthar le cistin,
chomh díonach ar uisce
le bundún éisc nó gur thit
deoir mhór amhain ar a grua,
shil tré scoilt san fhuinneog
is dhoirt thar dhroichead
sróine mo chaiptín
a shuigh gan chor
sa suiochán tosaigh.

Nuair a bhris na bainc
taobh thiar de shúile m’athar
ni thraochfadh buicéad
ná galún stáin an ráig
a bhris tré pholl
sa bhfirmimint
ar mo cheann báaite.
Bhi stuaiceanna eaglaise
is bóithre iarainn á lúbadh,
croíthe is bróinte muilinn
á smiotadh, fallaí
is leacacha sráide
ag tabhairt uathu,
an talamh ag bogadh
is giorranáil an phortaigh
in uachtar arís ionam fhéin.

B’fhada liom go dtréigfinn
an chré róbhog
dar di mé
sara bhfáiscfí
an deoir dheireanach
as an gcloch im lár,
sara gcuirfeadh an grá
a dhá lámh
timpeall mo mhuiníl
dom tharraingt síos
go tóin an phoill



Choinnigh mo mháthair chríonna
hainceasúr brúite le croí
a dearnan chun nach bhfliuchfadh
racht na spéire a leiceann tíortha
mar bhí báisteach air ó mhaidin
an lá a d’fhág m’athair an baile.

Bhí a bhalcaisí Domhnaigh
nua-iarnáilte, a chroí fáiscthe
is snaidhm dhúbailte ar an iall
a cheangail a chás cartchláir
chun nach scaoilfí an gad
a choinnigh é i dtreo chun imeachta.

Nuair a chuir sé a bhais i nglais lámh an rópa
chonaic an tsúil i gcúl a chinn
Tomás Óg Mac Curtáin
ag siúl ar aghaidh an tí,
a cheann go hard thar ghuaillí
an Gharda is cóta an tSaorstáit
thar chaola a lámh ag ceilt na slabhraí
a cheangail an cime don todhchaí.

D’airigh sé arís ó bharr na sráide
rois na bpiléar chomh fras
le cith úll, lá dá raibh sé féin
Embun creiche san úllord laistiar
de Réalt an Iarthair maraíodh fear
a chuaigh ar a choimeád
o gheibheann na leabhar gabhála
sa chlais le hais na habhann.

Chuala sé uaill na máithreacha
go léir ón lá sin sa tsráid
chomh garbh le claibíní bruscair á ngreadadh,
ag glaoch abhaile ar an macra,
a ainm féin á fhógairt amhail
móid dilseachta os comhair an tsaoil.

Thug cluas bhodhar an tarna huair
don tseanbhean, rug greim ar a chás
is chuir pas coitianta na himirce
os a chionn, an ruga olna a d’fhág
séala na himpireachta chomh follas
ar a láimh lena thuin ramhar Chorcaí.

An lá a d’imigh ár mbuachaill bán
bhi solas flannbhuí sa spéir
mar a bheadh tinte cnámh
ar lasadh go hantráthach
nó tochtanna leapan á ndó
ar bharr fallaí an phríosúin.

Chaith breac geal scilling in airde
faoi Dhroichead an Chroí Rónaofa
á scarúint féin lena nádúr báite

nuair a shiúlaíos an droichead ina dhiadh ar mo shlí
go haerfort na Sionnaine

bhí an ghrian ag dul faoi
i súile mo mháthar críonna

a d’fhan ina staic sa doircheacht
ag féachaint im dhiaidh ó cheann na croise.



Bhí sí deanach ariamh is choíche
mar a bheadh smut dá candam ama
abhus ar iarraidh i gcúl an chúits
nó i bpóca deannaigh
taobh thiar den matal
is gur lease léi dul ar aghaidh
gan dul siar á chuardach
sa scoilt idir anois is anallód.

Cheartaigh a fear an dearmad
a bhí inti, dar leis, ó nádúr;
chas an tigh chun cinn ar an gclog
le breith ar ais ar an am a cailleadh
idir buille Eilbhéiseach a chroí fhéin
agus buille mírialta na mná
a bhí díreach an méid sin
as alt i dticteach na cruinne.

Tá sí deanach i gcónaí
is táimid brúite i gcúl na cairte
chomh míshlachtmhar
leis an dtaobh istigh
d’uaireadóir briste,
ag triall.ní foláir,
ar Aifreann a haondéag.

Tá cloig ag bualadh,
adharca á séideadh
is uisce ón spéir á dhoirteadh
ar ghrua an ghaothscátha.
Tá cuimleoirí basctha
mar chiarsúr linbh ag smearadh
deor le súil an ghluaisteáin.

Seasann an draibhéir
ag bun an staighre sa halla
chomh righin le líne ón mBíobla,
is an ghrian ag dul faoi
ar chaol a chiotóige.

Tá monabhar a bhéil chomh ciúin
le siosarnach na leathanach
i leabhar urnaí,
a chroí buailte
ag buile an chloig.



Chuimhníos ar m’athair críonna
i ré na clochaoise
sa seid réamhstairiúil
ag sniogadh gile
as sine righin na seanbhó

nuair a chas EI 32
a smut tais
ag smúrthaíl
i dtreo an bhaile

chomh malltriallach
leis an ndroimeann sheasc
a d’fhéach thar n’ais
ar ghlaise na gcnoc
ná tálfaidh sí choíche ina lacht

sara gcuaigh isteach
i dtrucail donn
dilis an tseamlais.



Ní tuisce a thuirling
mo chois den spéir-each
is theagmhaigh arís
leis an dtalamh
ná chonac mo scáil
giortaithe id shúil,
craptha i dtoirt
nó go bhfillfeadh gan dua
i gcaol do mhac imrisc.

Chiorraigh m’ánail
nuair a chuiris do láimh
im thimpeall,
lagaigh mo chnámha
faoi ualach do chéad
fáilte romham ar ais.

Nuair a ghlanamar
doras an aerfoirt amach
bhí do scáil rómhór
dom ghualainn
is an tsíoraíocht a d’fhágas
ar thonnta an aeir
ar mo shlí isteach
ag scinneadh amach
thar Tuskar Rock.