Falling Apples (4 page)

Grow dimmer towards dawn

From my fourth floor eye on old London.

Crossing elegant Victoria railway station

She reaches for her ringing mobile phone:

Young and yet without an ounce of fear,

Still moving onward as it sings its signal.

She answers, smiling with sincere delight-

And who is to tell it’s not her father calling

Just to say hello and ask if she’s alright.

A strict security warning mars the morning,

Insinuating the existence of an evil enemy

Who indiscriminately maim and cruelly kill,

Like the madmen did in the city of Madrid.

Sliabh Aughty, my own mountain mine,

Rhododendroned ridge ever there for me;

Fields ascending higher as I go

From Ballylee to Loughrea’s lake:

To look beyond at County Clare

Or to gaze at Galway Bay.

Beyond the vision of the valley

Is a village hard to find,

But now it’s known the world over

Since the bog has moved in Derrybrien.

Forests, farms, furze and heather-

Colour palette in the sun:

Who’ll protect them from the landslide

Slipping down the river run?

Noble men of Tobar Pheadair,

Castleboy and old Kilchreest

Won’t you worry for your brothers

Who are threatened by the beast

Now let loose on this landscape

Far beyond the mountain top?

Have you seen Abhainn dá Loilioch?

Floating Christmas trees and peat

Slowly slithering towards Lough Cutra,

Killing brown trout in the squeeze,

Ruining roadways and the bridge.

Up in the pub that’s warm and snug

There’s talk and tension in the air:

They’re telling tales of a fearsome gorge-

Up a thousand feet from there.

All the experts are left thinking

For they’ve failed to fight the flow:

All their barriers were upended

With a muffled mountain roar.

In Derrybrien they’re not fearing

What’s gone down but what’s to come -

Maybe further bigger landslides!

For God’s sake what’s to be done?

Bring them help,

We fought for freedom-

’Tis their land, their place, their lives!

It’s not just a piece of mountain -

Don’t be fooled, it’s far more grand;

Those who are up there isolated

Are the very salt of our native land.

When Pádraig Pearse was writing poetry

’Twas not of Golden Vales he wrote

But of the little towns of Connacht,

Of mountain fields that men have sown.

At the weekend Fleadh of Cooley-Collins

I watched a lively woman dance

In sean nós style and quiet abandon

On an afternoon in Peterswell;

While at the bar there played a fiddler,

With hat of tweed and stoic face,

His bowing was so soft and gentle

In deep respect to this great place.

Just one word about the mountain

That I grew beside secure,

Thinking mountains were forever-

They were there aloft alone;

But having been to Costa Blanca,

In a town called Guardamar,

There I saw the bulls tormented

In the ring to loud acclaim;

Such noble, haughty, well built creatures

Sent to death by lance and spear;

There they lost their way so blindly

And the blood flowed down their shanks.

Now it’s nature’s turn to suffer

As the bog slides o’er its floor-

Like the toros proud it’s blameless,

All the shame is ours alone.

Let Spanish bulls on prados prance,

Far away from the mob’s olés,

To be there to see in all their beauty

Like the backdrop of these hills.

’Twas not a bull but the Celtic Tiger

Changed your serene mountain stance:

What you’ll see is masts and turbines

Every time you upwards glance.

Throw up your head and horns on high,

You wild and fearsome toro,

While the river of mud, the mountain’s blood,

Flows from the land of Lough Atorick.

Bono and Bob in Live Eight in Hyde Park:

Our boys are doing the business;

Heroes of rock and heralds of hope

Across the broad bands of the media.

African famine could soon be just history

For the Global Eight are dropping their debt

In the hope of an end to all the corruption.

In the far fields of Africa drums will beat

At the news from our Bob and our Bono;

They’ll walk with a happier step in the heat

While their war is won simply with music.

You can-

I’ll be damned

But

Tonight

I need

To hold

One of you

In my hand.

You can-

You are

My only man.

You can-

You w on’t

And I can’t

Be on our own.

I’ll have another

And you there

Don’t tell

My mother!

You can-

Now I can’t

Stand.

Too many

Cans-

Going to land!

My fellowman

I’m canned.

I’ll soon be

Ignominiously

Banned.

The piano man plays on

And the tenors thrill

On the screen this Christmas;

Soon at dawn, it’s said,

Saddam Hussein will hang.

Is that the only strategic plan?

Will the Sunnis and the Shiites

Still kill each other if they can?

Because he laid waste to those

Who did not tow the party line

He dies. Another death-

And did he have those weapons

Of destruction after all?

All was bad in the city of Baghdad

Before Saddam went on the run.

That it’s bad again today

Is getting easier to say

As peoples lives are blown away

By waves of suicide bombers.

Washed up like flotsam

In our face from faraway

To reach our TV screens:

Dead bodies making news

For deadlines,

As regular as the tidal flow.

Fifteen more are dead;

How many more to go?

The piano plays on regardless

And the tenors raise the roof

But around that deadly gallows

In the capital of war

The only one with dignity

Is the man condemned to die-

And the hangman deals the cards.

Oh God above forgive me

In the middle of this night;

Yet by the power of Heaven

The universe is all but mine.

I hear the silence and it means

I’m on my own. I’m here.

The mirror of this moment’s real.

What I see I also deeply feel:

The shape and size of my own cell.

The door’s the first I see so well:

It’s in my eyes, it’s always closed;

It’s never mine the space it’s in-

The prison owns that piece of light

And stores it up far out of sight.

It’s not for me but my day will come

I’ll stand there free like everyone

To take the road that starts off there;

So maybe now I’ll say a prayer.

Thank God I have this time to think

Of how I stepped back from the brink.

I’m still your friend-I hope so God.

The walls say yes to me aloud.

My bed is there behind me flat:

Dreams come seldom where I’m at.

Not too far of another day

Will slowly push the heavy stone away

That makes this place so like a tomb

And I will travel towards the light;

I’ll leave this room, I’ll leave this womb,

I’m on my painful journey down.

It’s awful dark. I’m on my own.

Now black is not that black at all-

If it fades much more I’m going to fall!

Little light of day, my eyes are open.

I’m glad my God that you have spoken:

Now I am yours and you are mine-

Daylight at last and still there’s time.

I travelled on the Luas at last:

A silent maiden voyage

Across Seán Heuston Bridge,

Its brazen tracks had taken.

By red bricked ill gotten streets,

Deserted faded and neglected.

Only a single one-way traffic lane

The silent snake has left beside it

As it steals through Jervis Street

And by The Smithfield Market

To the very heart of Dublin city-

Still without a sound-the silencer.

Kookaburras came like Carmelites

Arriving reverently in twos;

Landing quietly without a coo

On the paperbark tea trees By the pond.

The silence snaps suddenly

At the Kookaburra’s laugh.

A ballet corps of blue water lilies

Ready to dance.

By metro to the ancient Montmartre hills

Where windmills once steadily turned

To mill the grain and to crush the grape;

Artists who adorn this place with art

Will paint you there in La Place du Tertre.

Inside the dimly lit Salle de Saint Pierre

I saw an enthralling expo of ancient dolls:

Elegant ones made in La Belle Epoque

Then some primitive poupées from Peru;

Pins in old African ones to work voodoo.

The snow melts slow and so silently falls

Off a tree that’s high in the sloping green

And I take one more cup of café au lait-

Drinking to the pearl of Paris out there,

The jewel on the crown-the Sacre Coeur;

Three rising, winding Byzantine domes

All in white, this grand landmark in stone:

Basilica of all travellers and pilgrims true,

Capped by The Cross up high in the blue.

Another day over, the cafés are closing:

Candles on tables for two are blown out-

The secrets of love on faces were seen;

Banter of people now out on the streets-

Glowing from wine and of being together:

So happy and merry in twos and in fours,

Fixing of scarves and tumbling out doors.

Emerging from the station dimly lit,

The Dublin train confronts the dark;

Cruising comfortably out of Kerry

Before careering headlong onwards

Across the county bounds with Cork.

Then the dawn of everlasting beauty

Waves high her magic wand of light,

Revealing lines of long sensuous hills:

Their dips and curves mysterious,

Black against a deep blue low horizon.

Millstreet silhouetted there beyond,

Still lit up as if by Chinese lanterns.

Banteer bathed in the morning glory-

The far off windows splashed with gold;

Tea is served, the next stop is called,

Awaking sleeping early morning risers.

About you Mike I could write a book

If I was worthy to put you into words;

Yourself could put it better I believe.

Death has left us at a loss without you.

Going to fairs with seasoned farmers,

To them you were the old lad’s son,

But fully fledged you surprised them:

Dealers now bargained with a man.

You arrived on call when skill was all,

Weather fair or foul the job was done

And you freely gave of what you got-

A farmer who had loyalty to the land.

As time went on they’d take their turn,

Hardworking men came hurrying in

To meadows when the hay was down

Or cattle testing time had come again.

Agile, red haired, in faded blue shirt:

Reins a bandoleer for him in spring

Guiding plough horses by the furrow,

Seagulls following–a storm warning.

Sheep shearing time, greasy fleeces,

Bottled stout for neighbours helping;

Sharing, swearing, telling good ones,

Among friends feeling free and easy.

On a kitchen chair he’d kneel to pray

In the morning as in the old tradition;

After he’d herd the sheep and cattle

And then he tilled in fields till evening.

By night after earning his daily bread

He felt the need of some good libation

And on his high stool he so often said

‘I’m luckier than most’- in celebration.

Head of the clan, how I miss that man.

We had our nights in Lisdoonvarna;

Saved turf together on the mountain,

Mended the fence down by the river.

I write these lines for an absent brother

Buried on a hill up in Kilchreest village;

From here or from heaven overlooking

Forever the beloved land of our fathers.

In the still night

I surface

From the dreamy depths;

There is a diesel drone

That plays upon my brain:

A taxi from the town

Bringing home

A small-time punter,

Elegant even at this hour;

Punch drunk from winning

At the races today.

In town tonight

Winners and losers were alright.

Heels in the hall,

A sound so safe:

A welcome noise in the night.

As she beelines to her bed

Her taxi turns and fades away.