The Mauve Hills

 

Six years old he stands the same height
as the cello and still idealises his father
their lead singer, who drunkenly reels
between the instruments.
This is his father's band, these lyrics
are in the language of the isles,

A wedding party perhaps six miles
to the east of the Donegal border,
the mauve hills still in sight
with wild geese swooping over their tips
as if, but for the checkpoints and barbed wire
he might have walked those few,
scarce hedgerows into the Free State.

He is too far west of the Bann
for him to recall that this is occupied land
though the roads are quieter
though the signposts are in one language only
though there are new yellow number plates
and few of the white ones of home.
This farmhouse is like any to the South.

the young couple dance, enthralled
as children arch their feet like words.
A moment of light-footed ballet is broken
now by the screech of gunfire,
the awkward creep of tanks in the sunset hills,
His father’s language such a stigma.

Reviews

[fireblossom]

Sel, I think my question will illustrate something...Is this still the condition in Ireland?

I thought the IRA had made its piece and that the barriers had come down. I remember the news of Ireland filling the papers in my youth, but since then the whole world has become Ireland.

With that said, this is another brilliant poem. You took life in the light of living and then pulled back to show the larger reality. Powerful and moving.

Thank you for being a writer.

[Siddhartha]

Oh, another poignant piece Sel. You wonderfully describe the condition of someone who has always got a raw deal at the hands of fate.

[Emily B]

I know I had read it. I thought I had left a comment. I cannot think what must have happened to the words I thought that day. You tell such a raw story. Your gifts run deep.

[AK]

Another brilliant piece of your world revealed. This is remarkably written.

[Ed Hart]

you are a beacon come round and round again exposing the dangerous shoals, reminding the world is what it is...