Castletroy Words

 Here's an old favourite.  The Cold Institution. I still recall the harsh, unblinking light, The laughter gone, the corridors made bare; The endless ends when help was out of sight, The bowed-down heads that learned to breathe in fear. I entered full of hope, alive with flame, And crossed those doors in trust, intact, and whole; Too soon the ache, the terror, dulling shame Crept fast, yet could not fully take my soul. I’ve faced far worse than ignorant men like these, Yet scars remain where cruelty held sway; I fled, still marked, but claimed my right to breathe, Escaped the cold, punitive display. Their voices blamed me — don’t survivors know That wounds may heal while injustice stays? Still I will stand, remember, watch it go, This brittle rule, this barren, joyless maze. For kinder things will rise to take its place; I’ll claim the aim I carried through that door. Their arrogance will fail, their power waste, While I endure — and stand, and am, and more. Dedicated to the su...

 I long to throw off these chains and dance dance as if nothing mattered and music was everything life weighs heavy and survival is everything but I long to dance again with the music echoing in the empty room dance as we used to dance before the days got darker  dance as if music was everything and nothing else mattered and you were here to dance with me

I remember Enfield and the sweet grey air, the relief of landing, the strangeness of Ireland, the fast traffic, the litter and the friendliness of the people, the roadside graves, the royal canal and the tall grasses, and the lovely town. Where the bypass hums with a restless modern engine, but the water holds the shadow of the old stone walls, and the swans cut lines through the quiet afternoon. A gateway opening to the wider fields of Meath, where neon signs and ancient soil meet at the crossroads, and a stranger is offered a smile before a name.

Mayo Series.   From Meath to Mayo. The Sheepdog Running. Seamus, Bill and Missie in the valley. A flash of black and white against the grey-green, She clears the low stone wall with steady grace, The swiftest shadow the hills have seen, With low-slung shoulders and a lowered face. She balances upon the cold brown stone, And watches with a calm but wary eye, Content to sit and guard the flock alone, Until a whistle echoes the valley sky. Down she leaps and flies through the heather, With freedom that she doesn't know we envy, Though paws grow slow in the biting weather, And soon a pup will take her place completely. Through the valley depths she takes her flight, Her coat a banner streaming in the gale, She runs against the wind with all her might, A streak of silver down the stony vale. We all need our sabbath, girl, we all need our rest, As shadows lengthen on the valley floor, You’ve given to these hills your very best, And ran until your ancient paws were sore. But can you ...

Working on specific childhood memories today, had to do quite a lot of anonymising of situations to publish this.  Crossfire. Helpless children caught in the crossfire, the world of adults beyond comprehension, throwing us like castaways into the sea. There is no reasoning, no safety, nowhere to rest, to shelter, to cling to. With nowhere to go, overstaying our welcome, huddled away while the chaos echoes around us. The damage is slowly building, growing into us as roots grow into soil, the bad growth becoming irreparable, the pathways corrupting, the foundation breaking. A childhood spent in unregulated chaos, trapped in a world that had no room for us, setting a future without hope, a life of suffering ahead of us.

  I went home yesterday, a place where the wind says my name and laughs. And deep inside, there is still some joy. But there is no one there. I went to remember the anniversary of one of many gone, but there was no one there to greet me. I was so terribly alone. I am alone. I am so alone, and no one can hear me, no one can reach me. Everyone I loved, everyone I trusted, is gone. I am so alone— just a memory of company, of love, of laughter, of closeness. An empty world now, where all I know of closeness is hurt. It is hard to go on. But somewhere inside me I find the strength. And I go on.

A while back I wrote two about different people who were like sisters. This is the one on my mind at the moment. So I'm reposting it.  You were like a sister to me. I will miss you. You had energy and life in you, always bouncing like Tigger, bringing movement into every room. But you didn't trust me. You lied to me. And so I'm stepping away. I had a sister once. She was very like you. We were close—so close that when she would sit by the railway tracks, thinking of ending her life, she would come back and tell me. Not our parents. They lived in a world of their own, and when a man hurt her, they could not give her the support she needed. So she sat on the shore and watched the sea. She walked the railway line. She carried storms inside herself. And when she came back, she told me. That's why I know that sisters carry wounds. I know they carry secrets. I know they can love fiercely, even when they are hurting. Perhaps that's why I cared for you as I did. And now I...