To the west of Mulranny,
Past Spanish Point.
Where dark, dark Minaun,
Cast's her cold shadow.
There is a fast sound,
Dangerous as a true sin
As many a Navy man Royal found
And many a clever islander too.
And the land runs,
down to her gently.
It glides, as if a sea bird
down to the shallow sound,
From both sides,
right, then left
Giving somewhat -
the impression of a cosy valley.
With warm homesteads close-by,
together at dusk
But they are seperate, in truth
by land, long and strewn
Many many miles
hard walking.
By sea, a ten minute walk
would suffice;
But no-one would
ever talk of such a stroll,
For they would never tell
of anything
Again.
However deft
However brave
For the sound takes
What it owns.
One evening, I drove to the right of her,
And the red Oche sun painted for me
Scenes on the hills,
Great battles history -
Wars of celtic gods, christian saints
And the old Gods before people
And the God's older still
Who have no names anymore.
But bear all on their backs
This land is, in truth, those Gods' land.
It changes with each ray of light
That passes this way through the
broad deep ocean,
green and milk topped
fresh as a breeze
blowing through a green arbour
Or black as terror , with white cresendo
Black rocks shot with reds and quartz's
Sharpened by water
It is not a place for faint of heart
Or unsure of foot
And at Achill beg can be seen
Man's footprint,
long here
Strange barrows,
and dry walls
That deep time
has made anonymous
To the prying eyes
of modern time
But past 8,000 years
have our people
Lived in this place,
guarded, hounded
By the Atlantics' cruel force
And I swear
if I had freedom to choose
a place to live,
without concern
And a place to die,
without worry
It would
Be here.
From scenes, rememberences, trips, days, evenings, spent on Achill Island and Mulranny, Co. Mayo, Ireland.
