Here’s a bit of an auld poem or whatever you would call it about the town I live in, which I just wrote because sure why I wouldn’t I.
The people pass me by while I walk
With the pages of my words in blue
My pen is black my hair gone grey
My dreams still a rainbow of hope
They nod and smile and I reply
With a wisping joy of a home I found.
And the pubs stand with open arms
And there’s more Chinese food than
Native grub to purchase in silver trays.
The cross has a head missing and when
I stare the pagan in me sees the
Beauty of the three spirals designed
In the wind and truck beaten stone.
The book, they pilaged to the place
Where the west brits learned the rules
Of domination, is missing, driving the
Spirits of the monk’s half lunatic mad
In the quest for their coloured pages.
They look and can’t find their inks.
A tower is round, a saint’s home square
I sit in front of a wall writing auld words
Some which rhymn and some which shock
And inside I remember the people who
Came before me from this historic mammoth
Of artistic beauty and wealth of creativity.
While somewhere beneath, a river runs, avoiding
The stone chasms which need pile-driving to
Penetrate the heart of a place where a gypsy
King lies sleeping in gold beside the graves
Of nuns and people of all shapes and sizes
I meander along the boulevard with my
Thought which turn into wonder seeking
Moments of eternal relaxation while
Around me they all seem to do the same.
The tale ends with a sun set over a spot
Where the Vikings plundered and Cromwell
Marched and the monks hid and the priests
Said their auld prayers to the devout masses
From books at a hidden alter by a well
And the world is for a moment as it should.
© Francie McGivney 26.06.15
#hayfestivalkells Hay Festival Kells