Tinteán

Cottage Mayo. Credit Siobhan Knox

Sanctuary

My mother called it Grand Central Station.
Our kitchen the main platform
and when we were tall enough
we could glance out the half door.
When clangorous clouds clashed
we dived under tables.
Plugged ears when pigs squealed on death row.
But always ate salty bacon well into spring.
We learned that slow churning makes bad butter
and that the rain makes music on the zinc roof.
Our grandfather got kicked by a horse
and was waked by candle light in this very room.
The wet wireless battery on the window -sill
took us far away from the back hill.
We flew with Dan Dare and the Mekons in outer space.
Ran with Delaney in that Olympic race,
scored countless goals with Pele for Brazil.
In the middle of the night my brothers and I
were in Yankee Stadium with sixty thousand fans.
We were all Rocky Marciano’s in his last fight.
No one wanted to be
Archie Moore the challenger in the blue corner.
Mock boxing quickly turned serious.
Mother pleaded and warned us
and she shouted ‘stop, stop.
You will be gone far away from each other soon enough.’

 LAMENT FOR THE LETTER P IN DRUMMUCK 

But most of all, you won’t find any pigs at all on the Hawthorn Hills of Drummuck.
We killed a pig almost every fall and then used the bladder as our football.
No crrek crrek of the corncrake, nor can we see any low flying water duck.

We walked our white bullocks to Bellaghy fair and we never were a sook or a suck.
Some of us were very small but we could make poitin as soon as we could crawl.
But most of all, you won’t find any pigs at all on the Hawthorn Hills of Drummuck.

We ploughed the fields and rarely got stuck in the water clogged muck.
We grew seedling plants both tall and small for farmers in far off Cushendall.
No crrek crrek of the corncrake, nor can we see any low flying water duck.

We gathered the potatoes and then we lifted the bags on to the old cattle truck.
Then all of us both big and small played Gaelic football and this would end in a brawl.
But most of all, you won’t find any pigs at all on the Hawthorn Hills of Drummuck.

Every family in Drummuck had a priest and they hoped that would bring them good luck.
They spoke Italian and Latin, talking about Rome far away from the parish of Mayogall.
No crrek crrek of the corncrake, nor can we see any low-flying duck.

A pig’s back drumlin carved by a glacier eons ago and this name forever stuck.
Our past never dies and it lives today in the fragile fragments that my memory can recall.
But most of all, you won’t find any pigs at all on the Hawthorn Hills of Drummuck.
No crrek crrek of the corncrake, nor can we see any low-flying water duck.

Old Irish Cottage

Ritual

My father tramped every inch
of the Glenghlessa grazing slopes.
He talked to the cattle every day,
inspected them to see if any
of the hill folk had thrown poison darts
or other sinister forces cut down
branches from the yew tree.
Then he offered thanks –
He lowered his voice in a trance
as he walked close to the speckled moiley cow.
The cow swiped clegs by turning its head
and swishing it’s tail. He stopped,
then sauntered along, shading himself
from the waning Lammas sunshine.

He never carried bread in his pocket
but he always would hook
a red ribbon on the cow’s white tail.
before, slowly, it moved to join the herd
to drink from the Culnady river.

Micheal Boyle lives in  St John’s Newfoundland.

 Michael has a BA and M ED degrees from Memorial University Newfoundland. He has had an honorable mention in the 2001 Newfoundland Arts and Letters (Andy’s Prayer Book) and he is working towards his first collection of poems (The Changeling). In 1998 he retired from teaching and he operates a unique and famous historical walking tour in the old seaport city of St John’s.