Autumn is Coming.

Autumn is Coming.

The swallows are gathering on the wires,
the days of the summer close in,
the school children have started back learning,
before life will become dormant again.

The apples will fall from their branches,
the gooseberry bush it’s stripped clean,
going are the days of great drying,
the harvest our cupboards will fill.

The mackerel will flee from the harbour,
the lamenting of gulls fills your ear,
as the herring boats pull into the quayside,
autumn jars they are grandfather’s pride.

The leaves they will change in the hedgerows,
the summer fleeting over the hills,
the corncrake falls silent in the meadow,
as the edge of the wind takes a chill.

The world has a wonderful abundance,
if we only took our bare share,
no need for hunger or desperation,
for you know thats simply not fair,
don’t horde money, land or natures bounty,
share all of it as freely as air.

Lord of Connaught

Lord of Connaught.

The last Lord of Connaught is still,
silent are the hills,
which once quivered with the ancient sound,
echoing round Belleek Castle & the Moy.

Sold out like many other rebels for a handsome purse,
hunted & chased,
beset by hounds,
mere curs,
the lesser generations of a magnificent line.

The slopes of Nephin Mór rang with the cry of the West,
the secret paths & valleys were know only to the Lord & kin,
cool water pools quenched thirsts & caves offered refuge.

Decades past & those unseen places in the hills,
give respite to hunted ragged men,
flying by columns at night.
The ancient rocks bear witness to fleeting history of man,
as natures princes were erased for sport.

 

Note:

Belleck Castle is a beautiful place to visit.

The image above and the text below are from their website.

http://m.belleekcastle.com/

‘Belleek Castle was built between 1825 and 1831, on the site of a medieval abbey, one of four along the River Moy. Belleek was commissioned by Sir Arthur Francis Knox-Gore. The manor house was designed by the prolific architect John Benjamin Keanes, and the neo-gothic architecture met the taste of the time, when medieval styles became fashionable. The Knox-Gores lived in Belleek until the early 1940’s.’

Bertra

2607_Croagh-Patrick_

Bertra

In the shadow of the Holy Mountain,
Joyous days of my youth,
Chasing impossible wolves of the sea,

On beach rocks washed by the mighty Atlantic.
Happy days tasting of salt & sunshine,

A battered rod & reel,

Brimming confidence and empty shopping bags,
Tinfoil wrapped ham sandwiches & effervescent cola,

The incoming tide pushing the intrepid Anglers back up the beach,
Until the heels of second hand shoes are pushed into saw grass dunes.

Picking seashells while holding out hope for a buried Volkswagen.

Ice cream cones dripping on hot badly laid tarmac where the west runs out and the horizon is broken by the last island.

Wind

Wind.

Seek the high and lonely places,
let the roar of wind push electronic chatter from your ears,
and drag a tear from an eye that was dry too long.

Breathe deep.

Feel the bite and sting of cold wind rush into the forgotten basements of your lung,
and revel in it.
anywhere flushed skin is exposed,
the wind will lick and nip.

Seek the high and lonely places,
let the wind push and buffet you and feel small,
look out, across and down,
and feel small.

Breathe deep.

Feel the bite and sting of cold wind rush into the forgotten basements of your mind,
and revel in it,
the wind will rise and bare aloft memories that have been lost.

Note:
I am delighted to say that it was also one of the first poems which was kindly selected for publication by Elizabeth McKenzie, Editor of Tintéan.
Tintéan is the online magazine of the Australian Irish Heritage Network based in Melbourne, Victoria.
You may find them here to read at:  https://tintean.org.au/2017/06/06/poetry-14/

Sea

This is a crazy life,
Everyday struggle and strife,
Quick get it fixed and patch that pipe up,
For craft and for care we have little truck.

This is a happy life,
Good friends and good laughs,
Nothing’s a bother when your having a blast,
For stress and for worries we chatter away.

This is a crazy life,
Hundreds of miles away from your wife,
You miss home and hearth and kids tucked in beds,
You worry and wonder till your stressed out of your head,
For family and romance you pine away.

This a happy life,
Everyday it is measured and set out by the line,
With bits of excitement to break up your time,
You push, pull and batter and hammer away,
On watch half your life, is it night? is it day?,
For this is a normal routine and battleship grey.

Summertime

It’s hot, sticky humid.

It’s twenty nine on the dial and climbing.

I can feel the sweat drops forming.

Salt stains white clouds forming.

Outside sea is foaming.

Hot breeze gives no comfort.

Salt spray finds crisp skin.

Dizzy with effort.

Muscled bodies carve through crested wave.

The joyous freedom confined only the sky.

Bright azure blue reflects of shiny grey flanks.

The breeze seems to be exalting them to go faster.

Charging, surging foamed channels rip and draw closed.

Streaking through the surface faster, harder, joy, happiness and life.

Skellig

Skellig.

You say I never write for you,
you say it with sad eyes.
so I have tried to write for you,
to help you stop awhile and smile.

I have sat about the rocky ledge and marveled at the sight,
of winged lovers far below, journeying,
o’re ocean roar and rocky might.
I reached the top and summited,
and my first thought was this.

That just like the Puffins far below,
you might find this bliss,
nestled in rare sheltered spot,
I saw a bright brave bloom,
and felt I should help it home,
to help you ease your gloom.

You are my heart,
my thoughts,
my love,
and I will not leave you behind.

Note:
This is one of my oldest poems which I have remaining in my possession.
I am delighted to say that it was also one of the first poems which was kindly selected for publication by Elizabeth McKenzie, Editor of Tintéan.
Tintéan is the online magazine of the Australian Irish Heritage Network based in Melbourne, Victoria.
You may find them here to read at:  https://tintean.org.au/2017/06/06/poetry-14/