Tyres

You must have hit something pretty hard
And deep.

He eyed the swelling, felt the heat of it.
The other too, you can see the damage.

Later, he'd invited me to feel the scar.
An open wound that tore through what seemed indestructible.

Can you feel it? You were right to be worried.

You must have hit something pretty hard.
And deep.

Later , as I felt the rumble of barely covered pot holes,
where the road climbs out of Rosscarbery through Knocknageehy,
I felt the shock
that left pieces on the road.

Tracks

Yesterday's foray into the sunny byroads of Co. Westmeath , was partly motivated by a search for a lost relic of the Royal Canal. A few years ago, I caught a fleeting glimpse of something that I found surreal and somehow sad. Stranded in the middle of a grassy field was the unmistakable black and white form of an old canal lock gate. Not discarded , but in place, leveling now not the green waters of the canal , but the soil and rock of a midlands meadow.

The image of that lock gate has fascinated me for years. Whatever accident of geography or failed navigation that had taken me past it was neither recorded nor repeated. Still I remembered its proud stillness. Marveled at how its identity of stone and oak, of leaded paint had withstood the indignity of its abandonment, the filling in of a siding no longer relevant, needed or loved.

In an odd way, the lock's land locking seemed to convey a greater sense of movement than one rushing with water. Or should I say, its sturdy limbs seemed to convey a sense of strength and potential like a runner trapped in sand. It was as if its trapped form longed to push its way through the field. Thirsty for green waters and , to quote Kavanagh once more, leafy-love-banks.

I drove and wove my way through country lanes but sadly did not find my lock gate. So perhaps it had finally surrendered to the plough, or found its timbers rendered and shaped to other purposes. Or maybe, in its quiet patient pushing had finally reached the rushing release of green waters.

I did however, find another abandoned relic of the Royal Canal , whose prison shadowed banks Behan sang of. I stood a little while and thought of those who laid this path, so certain of their course.

Canal Bank Walk
Patrick Kavanagh

Leafy-with-love banks and the green waters of the canal Pouring redemption for me, that I do The will of God, wallow in the habitual, the banal, Grow with nature again as before I grew. The bright stick trapped, the breeze adding a third Party to the couple kissing on an old seat, And a bird gathering materials for the nest for the Word Eloquently new and abandoned to its delirious beat. O unworn world enrapture me, encapture me in a web Of fabulous grass and eternal voices by a beech, Feed the gaping need of my senses, give me ad lib To pray unselfconsciously with overflowing speech For this soul needs to be honoured with a new dress woven From green and blue things and arguments that cannot be proven.

Iliad

I was reminded today of Patrick Kavanagh's poem, Epic, and the line "that was the year of the Munich bother". Today , while millions remained indoors to watch the "epic" clash of Germany and England in the world cup (and I have only the word of others to go on, soccer never having been my game) the good people of the parish of Killucan, Raharney and Rathwire, gathered in glorious sunshine to honour their dead.

Other epic contests meant more here and the priest promised to be brief to allow a hasty exit for those scrambling to Dublin to watch Westmeath take on Louth in the Senior Football Championship (real football this time).

Packed between the monuments, high granite crosses in the old part, polished marble in the new, the community and its returning diaspora, prayed, greeted, counted the lost and measured each other's girth ("you're looking well on it" a compliment to assumed prosperity and a sure signal that you'd gained a few pounds since last year).

With a handful of exceptions, I've taken this pilgrimage ever year for over forty years , migrating from the sacred plot where the history of my Mother's people is carved and my earliest childhood memories are interred, to the rapidly filling new plots and the polished granite and exuberant blooms of my Mother's own space. The village now surrounds the graveyard and the faces and voices have changed beyond recognition. Some things however remain the same: the tremulous choir over the loudspeakers; the pride and care each family takes of its plot, and those of long forgotten neighbours; and the ants. Even amidst the polished granite and fresh graveled paths, the ants march and weave between our feet in the sunshine.

Afterwards, I took some time to explore the paths and byroads of the surrounding countryside, something I've been promising myself for years but never quite found the time. Down roads that still brushed the underside of your car with grass growing in the centre, through villages whose hearts seemed unchanged but were now stranded in the midst of housing developments, some filled with Dublin registered cars, some finished but empty, others hoarded fields of broken promises.

Almost by accident, I finally came upon a hill top ruin and a cemetery even older than the one I had known since childhood. I parked and wandered across a lush green meadow to the silence of the overgrown ruins. I looked out over the river and an ancient landscape unmarked by tiger tracks. Somewhere here, beneath my feet, lie the remains of countless Allen's and Fitzgeralds.

This summer they plan to clear it. I plan to help.

So back to Kavanagh, and his Epic of 1938:

I have lived in important places, times
When great events were decided : who owned
That half a rood of rock, a no-man's land
Surrounded by our pitchfork-armed claims.

I heard the Duffys shouting "Damn your soul"
And old McCabe stripped to the waist, seen
Step the plot defying blue cast-steel -
"Here is the march along these iron stones."

That was the year of the Munich bother. Which
Was most important ? I inclined
To lose my faith in Ballyrush and Gortin
Till Homer's ghost came whispering to my mind.
He said : I made the Iliad from such
A local row. Gods make their own importance.