Between the dark and the soft grey light
of the slowly waking day
I dream of life among the trees
in tall forests, far away.
On knuckled branch and balanced cling
sweet vertigo relief
I scrutinise horizons
and scan for life beneath
Continue reading The Fading Forest.
On the shadowed grey of this wet autumn day
when our family has gathered in solemn pray.
We’ve dressed in respectful cloth of black,
to engrave farewell in granite plaque.
Warm shakes wring hand of autumn cold,
where sorrow’s linked, through solemn fold.
We share remembered tales of joy
of the friend we’ve loved, both man and boy. Continue reading THE MARINER’S RETURN
Between the dark and the soft grey light
of the slowly waking day
I dream of life among the trees
in tall forests, far away.
On knuckled branch and balanced cling
sweet vertigo relief
I scrutinise horizons
and scan for life beneath
Continue reading DARK DREAMS
I only ever answered one phone call in the 20 years my parents ran the Post Office in Carrick. I ran into the switchboard, connected and yelled “Do you not know what day it is?” and unplugged. In my defence it was Christmas Day and I felt my parents deserved at least one day off, one day without the constant ringing interruption.
Back then, the phone exchange was still analog and the main switchboard, which was situated in our front room, looked exactly like you might remember from an old black and white movie. It resembled an ‘upright piano’ which played just one song. It hosted a panel of black metal flaps, each hiding a number behind it, like some old game show. Each resident of Carrick, who was lucky enough to have a phone back then, was represented on this panel. The numbers were allocated in numerical order. The Post Office was Carrick 1, the Garda barracks was Carrick 2, my grandfather JW, being the first resident to have a phone was Carrick 3, and so on. The old black phone handsets hand handles which you wound hard to dial the exchange.
Hurry you up, hurry you up, hurry you up.
No call for that.
How much is that John?
I’ve no stockings on.
Take them wee shoes off Mammy.
Run on, run on, run on, run on.
Gimme them.
Where’s the scissors?
Here they’re up here.
Wait a wee minute.
Mammy Mammy.
We’re bad pennies.
I don’t know what it is.
Gimme that.
Go out and take it, go out, go out.
I’ll red you out of it, I don’t care.
Now that’s it all
Run out and tell her she’s not watching the wanes right.
Come on in, come on in, come on in a wee while
Throw that there.
Come on you now and tidy up.
Come on now see, come on now.
Where’s the stockings ?
They’re soaking Mammy.
We’ll have to change that now.
Frances, Frances, Frances, Frances.
Since my Dad died, I’ve questioned where home now lies. At his funeral, a childhood friend asked, now that both my parents were gone, would I have anything to return to? It made me wonder if home exist only in our hearts and minds? Is the world of formative years, the atlas of my dreams, my real home? Is it a place that I will always yearn for but can never return to? Continue reading HOME
My grandfather Jim William Cunningham, known as J.W., was always an old man to me. On visits to our home, he’d sit tapping his walking stick on the lino floor while talking with my Dad about the events of the day. There was little engagement with us kids. We didn’t sit on his lap or play with his glasses, which sat in a wonky gaze across his nose. We didn’t try on his Fedora style hat, a throwback to another era. If he wanted our attention as we played on the floor, he’d tap us with his stick. “Go tell your mammy to make a cuppa tea”. He wasn’t a gruff man by any means. Like many of his generation he adhered to the 15th century proverb that ‘children were not to be heard’. Continue reading GRANDA
My Father had a small collection of beautiful old cameras when we were growing up. The silver lenses focused by popping out, accordion like, on black paper bellows. This wasn’t a treasured collection. They were kept with other, long forgotten memories, in a large tea chest in our spare room. A room on the ‘top-floor’ which doubled as our attic space. Continue reading THE LAST PHOTOGRAPH
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