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Aug 2020
SINGING THE RIVER

Walking with my uncle was never
the ordinary process of of perambulation.

in order to get from pt. A to
pt. Z.

We would sing our way west into
the field as if to

tame it
soothe it with sound.

"On Carrigdhoun the heath is brown..."
we'd sing to it

"...the clouds are dark o'er Ard-na-Lee."

The grass listening with its thousand ears.

And the field would swoon
and fall down

to the river at its border
( which as it happened )

was the real life river
of the song

"...to kiss the slumbering Own na Buidhe."

As if we had sung it
into existence.

And we would roll ourselves down
over and over until

we arrived at its dizzy waters
dangling our toes

in pure song.

And now( with a quick uncle wink )
"Let's walk home....backwards!"

And backwards home we'd go
just for the laugh of it.

The yes of it!

Confusing cows
and a few scattered clouds.

Trees and hedges tiptoeing
away from us.

The five-bar gate with
the sweetest wildest strawberries at its feet

proclaiming: "Is it mad...
...y'are or....wot?"

And the next day off we'd go walking eyes closed
in a darkness of our own making

to sing its song
to the river

the river chuckling
over stones to itself.

And the next next day would be
backwards with eyes closed

led along by our own laughter
and the odd mystified moo.

"Farewell..." we'd tell
the sleepy river "...farewell!"

leaving it dreaming
in a sunset.

"Shhhhhh..." shushed our footsteps
shhhhhhs walking backwards,

"When Donal swore, aye o'er and o'er,
We'd part no more a stΓ³r mo chroidhe."

"shhhhhhhhhhhh.....shhhhhhhhhhhh!"
"shhhhhhhhhhhh....­.shhhhhhhhhhhh!"

"....shhhhhhhhhhhh!"
Carrigdhoun
(Denny Lane)

The heath was green on Carrigdhoun.
Bright shone the sun o'er Ard-na-Lee
The dark green trees bent trembling down
To kiss the slumbering Own na Buidhe.
That happy day -- 'twas but last May --
'Tis like a dream to me,
When Donal swore, aye o'er and o'er,
We'd part no more a stΓ³r mo chroidhe.

On Carrigdhoun the heath is brown.
The clouds are dark o'er Ard-na-Lee,
And many a stream comes rushing down
To swell the angry Owen na Buidhe.
The moaning blast is sweeping past
Through many a leafless tree,
And I'm alone, for he is gone,
My hawk has flown, ochone mo chroidhe.

Soft April showers and bright May flowers
Will bring the summer back again,
But will they bring me back the hours
I spent with my brave Donal then?
There's but a chance. he's gone to France
To wear the Fleur-de-Lis.
But I'll follow you, my Donal Dhu,
For still I'm true to you mo chroidhe.
Donall Dempsey
Written by
Donall Dempsey  Guildford
(Guildford)   
57
   multi sumus
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