Éan Creiche
Le Tommy Fogarty
Go luath san earrach, lá álainn tráthnóna a bhí ann. Bhí an ghrian go híseal sa spéir, loinnir as na carranna, solas súilíneach. Bhí mé i mo shuí sa trácht ag éisteacht le podchraoladh, ‘The Rest is History.’ Bhí Tom agus Dom ag plé an Chogaidh Mhóir. Bhí an trácht an-trom mar ba ghnách. Bíonn sé i gcónaí ag dul ó dheas i dtreo an Chósta Óir sa tráthnóna, ar an Déardaoin agus an Aoine. Ba é crá mo chroí é. Cúpla céad méadar amach romham a chonaic mé é. Rug an corraí ar mo shúile. Bhí sé cosúil le mála plaisteach, ag damhsa agus ag cromadh, ag marcaíocht ar an aer bog, ag éirí. Bhí sé díreach os cionn an ghoirt fhada i lár an mótarbhealaigh. Bhog an trácht agus chuaigh mé gar go maith dó. Bhí sé cosúil le dhá phíosa páipéir ag rince le chéile. Cheap mé, ‘Cad é sin?’ Chuaigh mé níos gaire arís, bhí sé ag faoileáil i spota amháin. Bhí sé ag gluaiseacht go tapaidh ach bhí sé sa spota céanna fós. Go tobann, thit sé mar a thitfeadh úll agus bhuail sé an talamh screabach agus cheap mé, ‘A Thiarna, an bhuail urchar é? Chaill mé sa sceach é ar feadh cúpla bomaite. Arís, thosaigh an trácht ag gluaiseacht agus bhí mé díreach in aice leis an spota a tharla sé. Ar a dó a chlog, d’éirigh sé, ag síneadh a chliathán, ag slíocadh trid an aer cosúil le rámh trí uisce. Éan álainn bán ba ea é, le gríobha agus luch bheag dhubh sna gríobha sin. Éan creiche ba ea é, pocaire gaoithe agus é ag tuilleamh a bhéile tráthnóna, is dócha anseo, sa ghort fhada i lár an mótarbhealaigh. Anseo, timpeall faoin gcathair seo, bhí an dúlra ag déanamh a chuid oibre. B’iontach é a fheiceáil. Gan deoraí ann ach mé fein, ag féachaint ar an radharc seo. Áit nua-aimseartha síorghnách. Damhsa seanda spleodrach.
The Raptor
It was a beautiful day early in spring, evening time. The sun was low in the sky, glinting off the cars, a sparkling light. I was sitting in traffic, podcast on, ‘The Rest is History’. Tom and Dom going on about the First World War. The traffic was heavy as usual. It always is heading south towards the Gold Coast in the evening on Thursday and Friday, the bane of my existence! A couple of hundred metres ahead, I spotted it. The movement caught my eye. It was like a plastic bag fluttering, just floating in a gust of wind. Bobbing and weaving, riding the rising air. It was directly over the long field in the centre of the motorway. As the traffic moved, I got closer. It seemed like two pieces of white paper moving and dancing against each other, I thought, ‘What is that?’ I got a little bit closer and it was hovering in one spot, moving really fast but staying still. Then it just dropped like an apple. It just fell and hit the scrub covered ground and I thought, ‘Oh wow, has it been shot?’ I lost it in the scrub for a few seconds. And the traffic moved again and I pulled up right beside it. At two o’clock, it rose, took off, stretching its wings out, stroking through the air, like oars through the water. A beautiful white bird with yellow talons and in the talons a tiny black mouse. It was a raptor, a kestrel of some sort earning its evening meal. Here in the central reservation of the motorway. Surrounded by this city, nature was at its work. It was amazing to see, and I was the only one on that stretch of road that was privileged to witness it. A mundane modern place. An ancient vital dance.
Is as Tiobraid Árainn ó dhúchas é Tommy Fogarty. Tá cónaí air ar an gCósta Óir le blianta fada. Chaith seal fada sa Nua Shéalainn agus i Londain. Tá sé mar Uachtarán ar Chonradh Na Gaeilge, Queensland agus bhí sé páirteach ó thús sa ngrúpa Gaeilge Brisbane.
Tommy Fogarty is originally from Tipperary and now lives with his family in the Gold Coast. He has spent long periods of time in London and New Zealand. He is currently President of Conradh Na Gaeilge Queensland and has been part of the founding group of Gaeilge Brisbane.
Trees in November
by Mick McGann-Jones
when the trees in November their leaves still hold
the winter ahead is sure to be cold – Kerry Folklore.
Not a trace of a breeze;
the trackside trees
were muttering and whispering,
complaining they couldn’t shed their leaves.
Too bloody warm, they hissed again:
it should be so much colder instead,
the air isn’t right for the shaking season,
we should be settling in to our winter beds.
It’s fine for the pines and their greenly needles
and those annoying rhodos are sprouting seedlings,
but we need to rattle our branches clean
ready for our frost-time sleeping.
The whispering travelled through branches and roots,
the deciduous trees were in morbid mood.
These days, said they, it was hard to breathe;
the eldest trunkers swore humans were fools.
Salix and aspen didn’t want to know,
but birch and oak had long agreed:
something had happened, something unwanted,
gone were the days when they sang with the breeze.
The pattern was broken, rhythm lost,
joy had been stolen, even darkness scarred.
Fear spread like fire through the woodland gossip,
kindling a sense that they may not escape.
The seasons were all out of shape and too warm,
but in spite of the want of cold and wind
the only future the trees could see,
was one of relentless, icy storm.
Mick McGann-Jones is a former orchestral viola player with the BBC in UK, whose varied musical career took him through a diversity of pop and rock bands before turning to music education as his primary focus. He relocated to Kerry in 2004 and has become a regular contributor at poetry and arts events across County Kerry and beyond. His poems have been published in a number of Irish Journals including, Boyne Berries, Skylight 47, Poets Meet Painters and A New Ulster.
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RESURRECTION
Ode to a Yew Tree
By Michael Patrick Moore
This island embraced as its own the Gaels
Who lived their short lives; of life in pursuit,
For that thousand years before I took root,
Makers of music and tellers of tales.
Some have danced; some died, on this very hill,
Taken by war or by love besotten,
Their names, their deeds, all now but forgotten
By all but God, who remembers them still.
And perhaps me too, in my younger heart,
Of their light and shade a little of this,
Of their days and ways, before they moved on.
Of teachers they had, they all played their part,
The Druids knew much, but did not know this;
When that Stone was rolled back; the Lord was gone!
A church came to stand on this hill of mine
And a graveyard too, for the lost and saved,
Monuments these, to a sacrifice made
On another hill; in another time.
On life and the living years take their toll
But worry them nought, the earth and the stones,
While a thousand summers, have warmed my bones,
As many winters, have gnawed at my soul.
Observing their ways, my long life did fill,
Unspeakable evil and selfless good,
Time worn the graves of their postscripts upon,
To all but God; and a Yew on a hill.
Too few who rest here; believed, understood,
When that Stone was rolled back; the Lord was gone!
Michael Patrick Moore was born in Brisbane QLD, the fourth of six children to Irish Australian parents. Michael spent his childhood years in the beautiful Mary Valley just south of Gympie QLD. The majority of his working life has been spent in one form or another associated with the nursing profession. Michael was raised in a family deeply committed to music and storytelling and to the importance of family. His poetry profoundly influenced by his lifelong affinity with the natural world, service to community and the importance of being human and present with one foot in the past and one in the future. Michael is married, with three daughters, two granddaughters and still lives in South East QLD.
Tinteán 