Walking the Beach at Tramore.

As I walked along at the edge of the bay
On a sunny, peaceful, spring like day
I thought of generations who had gone before
And walked as I did this very same shore.
The sand was smooth, untrammeled, gold
Beach pebbles rounded as in days of old.
Assorted seashells were strewn on the beach
And seaweed stranded out of wavelets reach.
The waves foamed ashore and gently regressed.
To my ear a striped seashell I pressed.
The sea was calm and crystal-clear.
My thoughts wandered back over many a year--
To when Bronze age fishermen lived in the dunes
And locals believed they heard fairy tunes!
Down amongst the sand dunes hidden
Lies a prehistoric kitchen midden,
Where history says men in days of yore
Discarded bones and shells outside the door.



Tragedy in The Dunes

Just a mile from my own front door
I strolled along on the glistening shore
Until I arrived at the tiered sand dunes
Where an age-old myth tells of fairy-tunes.
My mind wandered back to a fog-laden night,
After a Search and Rescue flight,
When a stricken helicopter tried to land
Just yards from the safety of the smoothened sand.
Their mission ended in a terrible crash.
They hit a high dune with a horrible smash.
Four families are left broken and sad
Each of them missing a fine young lad.
Our little town joins in their unbearable grief.
A frightful memory now enshrouds our beach.
Four Air Corps heroes lost their lives,
On that foggy and tragic July night,
In the lovely sand dunes of Tramore
So close to the safety of the golden shore.



Fallen Soldiers

I went for a walk in the woods today.
Along the paths dead trees lay.
Last Winter's storms took them down
Ash and elm and oaks full-grown.
Twas sad to see them as they lay,
Like fallen soldiers in meadows of hay.
Brambles scrambled here and there,
Shy primroses and snowdrops fair.
My mind wandered back over many a year
When I played as a child in a tree-house here.



Return to Gola.

The craggy -faced fishermen return to visit their former island home
Where ten generations of their families had eked out an existence.
The Island of Gola lies a mile from the Donegal coast.
Their little boat beats its way through the choppy sea
Heading towards the lonely shore,
Where waves cream and foam over grey rocks.
A school of porpoises rolls around the boat.
The travellers land at the deserted pier
Where lobster pots still line the little quay.
The visitors stroll sadly along the empty streets and sheep lanes
Towards the crumbling cottages with their empty hearths
Where turf fires used to glow
Warming the islanders gathered to hear the tales of the local storyteller.
In the schoolhouse desks still stand in forlorn rows.
The last lesson is still clearly chalked on the blackboard.
The rollbook lists in copperplate handwriting
The names of former pupils -
Owen Roarty
Denis O Donnell
Hugh Sweeney
Michael O Donnell.
Where are these lads now?
Do the next generation know of their long family history ?
A storm lantern stands on a sturdy table.
A cartwheel leans agains a dry stone wall
Where fishing nets still hang forever drying
An anchor and chain lie in the little yard
Where hens used to scratch.
Bartley steps reluctantly into his old home.
A pictureless frame still hangs on the wall.
He sits in the chair where his grandfather used to sit,
Smoking his dudeen.
Outside again, weeds flourish in the garden,
Once so carefully cultivated and fertilised
With seaweed laboriously drawn from the beach.
A stackeen of turf, footed by his father still stands by the gable.
The thatched roof is falling in.
Bartley and Donal recall how the island once teemed with life.
On Summer Sundays children paddled on the beaches
Mothers knitted and chatted and watched the boys and girls
Who roamed the island fearless and free.
The menfolk talked of the weather and the fishing
The way island fishermen do.
Wearily the men return to the pier.
As their wee boat cuts through the waves
They stand and watch
As the island seems to get smaller and smaller.
A silent tear courses down Bartley's weather-beaten cheek.
Then they take a deep breath
And in unison ,as though rehearsed,
They turn to face the mainland,
Looking forward to arriving home to their new cottages
On the coast of Donegal
Where a warm fire and a kettlle on the hob will greet them.



Curraghmore

To Curraghmore we wended our way
At the end of a balmy August day.
A heron winged low o'er The Clodiagh Stream
Like a highly imaginative childhood dream.
A grouse strode on the lawn of velvet green
As we stopped to savour the magical scene.
Rabbits gamboled in the dappled shade
Of the lovely, leafy, oak tree glade.
The Stately Home stood square and strong
As the winding path we strolled along.
Steeped in history this venerable place
Could tell a tale to make your heart race.
The time had come when we had to leave
And homewards our pensive way to weave.

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