A Poem for Thursday...Driving to Donegal

Driving to Donegal

River Bann in flood  cattle on the bank

cloud and blue patches in an Ulster sky

red barn roofs curved and corrugated

Enniskillen          Omagh              Derry

on the green road sign.   Driving west.

Telegraph wires strung out on drumlins

measuring the miles and the messages

ancient gaelic town lands   anglish form

politics noted in the colour of a flag

politics  black    green     blue     red

and white  with a bloody hand

woven together like fine Sunday linen.

Fecundity found in every hedge and tree

mother Ireland at her most fertile her

green hills swelling as ample breasts

each rowan     ash     willow and oak

hazelnuts beechnuts and acorns with

meadowsweet  knapweed  fireweed and

net fences twined about with red rosebuds

over   under   around the edges of gardens.

Geraldine Snape

Muckross On The Edge

 

A very special place for my sister..the artist Rosie McClelland and therefore for me.
This is my attempt to put those emotions into poetry.

Travelling tracks
on the high edge of Europe
to Kilcar and  Muckross
uber ancient rocks
jutting hard on navy waves
endless ocean.

The edge where
swooping  valleys leave
masculine sliabhs to
drop away to Amerikay
green rock pools
sustain
burnt orange lichen.

And
wind blown clumps of sea thyme
nestle
in stoney crevices
here.

Broad limestone pavements
worn flat by tide and time
yield
to white-flecked endless forces
skimmed
by long-winged gulls.

Muckross
hanging rocks
face ocean
have stories to tell
futures  to sell
to the mountain people.
Hard lives
on elemental edges
sedges and turf
not enough to keep them
by Port or Tellin.

There strangers in long boats came
stealing wives and children
took their lives
took them for service.

Of many kinds.

[@rosiemcclellandart ....sliabh pronounced...slieve]