I thought I might put my 'best collection' here as I'm not entering any contests this summer. Monaleen Church is my all time favourite, followed by Lough Foyle, Show Day and Galtymore.
Monaleen Church
I remember from childhood,
the rain on the stone and earth of the walls at Castletroy.
I remembered—but couldn’t tell you—the feeling:
sitting in the day services, looking out at the rain.
I remember you.
I could read you, though you didn’t know.
You meant well. I miss you.
I remember Groody and Golf Links,
Dublin Road, home.
Music, dance, oranges.
Dancing Queen. I lived for my music.
I was with you
when you brought her home—
when you brought me home.
Answering God’s call without knowing.
A companion to dance, to laugh,
to love the music.
I remember the rain on the walls of Dublin Road,
the trees drawing night in early.
But most of all—
the Easter Vigil at Monaleen Church,
the bonfire blazing bravely.
May 9th.
December 25th.
Monaleen Church in full bloom—
the flowers, the beauty, the ache of it all.
So here I am.
Home.
A ghost made of ice crystals and fire embers,
soaring above Monaleen and Castletroy—
and in her, in her music,
in her dance with life...
I came home.
Lough
Foyle
He calls them Dubhs —
he grew without the English names
for fish or birds; the old words
stayed.
The Dubhs sit dark on lighted
poles
and show us where the shoals will
turn.
The seals assist us as we
cross
the Foyle, the boat crisscrossing
wide,
their cheeky heads rising to
laugh
as if they know the sea’s own
joke.
We bring our tea and biscuits
out,
the boat adrift on quiet water.
If the fishing line fouls the
prop,
will we be forced to take the
oars?
But no — we free it, thank God,
and go.
On one side Magilligan looms,
a shadowed wall of watchful land;
the other holds the party beach
where bonfires burned and voices
rose.
I still remember noise and
light,
Magilligan shining fierce and
bright,
white-tipped waves pulling
darkened water
back again onto the shore.
I walked
the cliff road home to Moville,
no sound but waves; the dark held
fast —
Magilligan lit in the night,
no fear at all, just awe and
wonder.
I sat on the wall so many
days
and looked across that widening
reach;
and from the farm I looked back
down
on Lough Foyle’s blue-silver
skin,
so clear no peat-brown Donegal
stream
could ever cloud its open face.
He calls them Dubhs —
and now, forever,
when I see them on the Shannon’s edge,
I think of him, of Lough Foyle’s
span,
of Magilligan, the seals, the
Dubhs.
Show Day
The sun shines forever on the showground,
in my dreams the scene is frozen, without a sound.
We work from four, the sunrise clear —
it’s show day, and everyone is here.
We work and sweat, preparing for the day,
aching and labouring without pay,
for the biggest day of the year —
it’s show day, and everyone is here.
Stalls to go up, parking to do,
and Alan driving his jeep through a gazebo.
Everyone’s there, familiar faces near —
it’s show day, and everyone is here.
There need to be ten of me,
setting up stalls, running errands and tea,
but I have endless strength, no fear —
it’s show day, and everyone is here.
There’s croquet and displays,
there’s shooting clays,
even a marquee for local beer —
it’s show day, and everyone’s drinking here.
As I’m handing out the tea,
someone comes running, shouting to me:
“You’ve won best in show — come to the tent!”
It’s show day, and the reporters are here.
A full set of firsts — you trained me well.
I look for you, but you’re nowhere to be found.
You and Austin, old rivals head to head —
it’s show day, and the loser sees red.
The crowds begin to melt away,
the clearing up at the close of day.
You tell me to come home and rest —
it was a great show day, the very best.
The music rings to the night sky clear
as we end another amazing year.
The barn dance packed into the tent,
the close of the whole show event.
He stands up there, his voice loud,
sharing his faith, happy and proud.
He speaks of eternal life — and so
that’s where he went, after the show.
The sunlight fades inside my dreams —
plane crash, storms, helpless screams.
I run to find you — there’s no one left.
The show is over, and I am bereft.
Still I’m with you there in my sleep,
these memories buried deep.
Then sunlight breaks — and there you stand,
smiling, reaching out your hand.
All of you waiting in golden day,
no storms, no parting, no going away.
“It’s show day,” you laugh — and I understand:
this showground is paradise land.
Galtymore, my compass.
Here we are in our little world,
guarded by the Silvermines, the Galtees curled.
Seen and unseen, they shelter us all,
and Galtymore stands, my compass, my call.
If we’re driving down Mount Meelick’s way,
the Galtees wave on the horizon, capped in grey.
If I go down to beloved Killarney,
Galtymore watches, wishing safe journey.
And if I head for Cork — and who would choose? —
I still watch Galtymore fade from my view.
And most of all, when I’m in Tipperary,
with soft, kind voices and tea that’s legendary,
with great tales told as the daylight fades,
Galtymore guards us, a fatherly gaze.
Then I desert him for Dublin’s height,
but he knows I’ll return, knows the rhythm of my flight.
I sleep under Three Rock, old friend and guide,
guardian of South Dublin, steady and wide,
Until Galtymore, my compass, once more
brings me safely, surely, home to his door.
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