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The Long Journey

“Pull up the draughts there Jimmy, tighten the belly set, loosen the britchen, give the mare a few fists of oats, dangle the bag over the tail-board and remember, don’t chuck the reins.”
I sit on the side-board, legs dangling. The Old Road smells of sulphur, smoke swirls westwards. Larry says, “There’s nothing good in an East wind.”
Brown hens and a speckled cock scrabe under the hedge at The Bloody Bridge. Two shawled women carrying bulging shopping bags wobble home towards Timberoe. A black-faced carman heads up the Side Road, the horse snorting and sweating.
“You’ll have one or two at Carroll’s, Micky?” says Larry.
“Nah, I don’t think so, not now Larry, but I will down a few tonight.”
At Massford Stores, head-scarfed women chatter, the air filled with the odd burst of laughter.
“Good day to you Mam, how’s himself?”
“Ah, sure you know, wheezing like a cat in a snare, though he’s still as randy as a puck goat.”
We move on. Passing Dwyer’s Pub, a dog pulls on the mare’s tail. This lady knows how to kick and the dog quickly runs away. 79
At Massford Bridge we meet two ass and cars, loaded with the miner’s firing, one load for Cretty, one load for The Glen. Black bicycles lean against Lacy’s white-washed wall. Smoke rises from the chimney. The whiff of fags and tobacco filter through the door. Sun glistens on the new thatch. A man leans on the half door, sucking a large bottle of stout.
“The day is holding well, though I’d say there’s rain somewhere, I can nearly smell it.”
“You could be right, a mhic,” says Larry.
We move on. We arrive at Carey’s Cross.
“You know this place?” asks Larry.
“No!” I reply, “new to me, never here before.”
“Well take a good look from here on, because if this mare has to come back, ’tis you will be bringing her, on your own.”
It’s all uphill now, a few gaps, gates, and stiles. Cattle, horses, asses and goats in the fields. Very few houses, unlike Moneenroe. The mare nibbles at the roadside grass. I’m in new country now, although only a few miles from home, it’s a strange world. I want to go further. A man ploughs a field near Coolnaleen. The men talk across the hedge, the weight of cattle, the price of cattle and pigs at Ballinakill Fair and Comer Fair. Both agree, good prices, good demand for fat bullocks, mad looking for strippers.
We move on. “That’s the Sraid Road on the left, called after the North Men.”
At the Big House, we turn right, down a winding lane.
“Look at that place now, don’t forget where to turn.”
“It’s a big house,” I think to myself. “It sure has big windows, seems like they have a large family too. I thought the largest family was in Moneenroe, but I counted over thirty in that yard, and there’s more at the back. Wait till I tell Mammy.”
We move on and arrive at the place.
“Mind your manners now,” warns Larry, “say please and thanks.”
The little lady brings me into the kitchen.
“What, you’re only nine, too young to see what goes on out there.”
Soon I’m drinking red lemonade and eating Marietta Biscuits.
“Thank you, Mam.”
“You’re a mannerly boy, God Bless you. Call me Mary.”

Willie-Joe Meally

November

As we turn the corner where the lane divides,
one track running to Summers’ house and one hightailing through the empty fields,
a flock of sparrows rises from its busyness,
like dust of the year just gone.
Red haws still smoulder
and there is the small but perfect miracle
of a woodbine flowering
in the face of winter’s wind.
This is November and the mountain bends
against the first nightfall of sleeting, sightless snow.
Times are tough, light hardly breaks
but our days will not be always so.
(For Alan Counihan)

John MacKenna

The Picnic

I love picnics
at any time of year really
but especially in summer.
Where will we go?
Two school friends
we plan for days ahead.
Yes, the riverbank in the big field
near the old castle.
MiWadi orange, cheese sandwiches
and Fig Roll biscuits,
flask and cups
all neatly packed in a Tupperware container
and canvas bag
with towel and togs.
Over two ditches
and down the long laneway
watching for the bull,
we reach our Tramore,
change, swim and stretch.
Trannie and birdsong mingle
and dreams happen.

Jane Meally