Paddy Walsh

As I walk away and put myself into the car,
I watch him turn,
one tear and a shoulder shrug,
disappears into the guts of the shed,
barely visible in the mirror,
as I leave home for the first time,
I pass by my father’s homeplace,
grandfather’s homeplace and cross the stone humpback bridge,
by the tree, and gone,
returning sporadically, like a confused swallow,
I stay for summers and rarely darker seasons,
passing company for my room and a high stool,
uneasy in myself, not in the place or the people.

A decade passes, returning out of shape,
the homeplaces and bridge are stuck in time,
unassumingly similar and unconsciously comforting,
the tree stands like a lighthouse,
it’s light made from 50 years of shadows,
a beacon of home,
sown as a melancholy departing act by an uncomplicated man,
ringing each year of an unfulfilled journey.

Walking dazed, confused and sockless,
the morning sun breaks off the slate of the grey stone spire,
it lords itself over the flat empty fields,
higher than the blades of the windmills.

The place of hope and centre of life,
large, cold and bright,
still warmed by people,
that went when I was young.

Best clothes worn, must not be late,
fill the pews and congregate,
women and children in the aisles,
farmers, mechanics and lovers in porch kangaroo trials.

Reciting lines, words by word,
thoughts addressed by control inferred,
drifting away above the echoes,
a pious ship anchored in the meadows.

Crewed by a captain in black,
boys and girls hoping for the wedding stack,
simultaneous hope as the murmurs end,
return home, put the clothes away,
and continue the seven day Catholicism trend.

We are all, that move around it in time,
a grey elephant, used as an intermittent shrine,
reminder of long lost community comfort,
but also, the guilt for supporting an institutional culprit.

The grating of the cheap plastic white and black,
serrated edges meet like cogs,
opening the board, flat and glossy,
Twenty four clicks against the laminate,
acts as a prolonged starters gun,
worn fingertips tap each of her subjects,
stained from rothman’s,
with an engrained wave still visible from adolescent nail biting.
To focus on anything more than the next move,
can lead to lessons learned,
through youthful exuberance and naive confidence,
singles and doubles gone,
taken by patterns only remembered, not taught,
the mantel piece clock works in her favour,
audible only to panicked endeavour,
cornered, no route of escape,
ensnared by ruthless grandmother behaviour.

Every week I attend a job without knowing,
anticipatory smells develop prior to leaving home,
trundling down the tree lined lane,
its an old farm place, tidy and practical on the outside,
we count cattle and its usually sunny there for some reason.
In through the timber door I’m led,
to a dank back kitchen,
the smell accosts my nose,
mildew, wet Jack Russell and old spinster are the mixture of smells,
topped off with a pinch of old bachelor,
they have demeanors battered by miserableness,
and their clothes are stiff with dirt.
Charm and niceties are laid on thick,
like butter on the stale scones about the table,
playing your part is important,
but making eye contact isn’t,
as it leads to a tin coming down from beyond the tea stained Stanley,
a tin full of sweets from one of Jesus’s birthdays,
fudges, toffees, and the unloved coffees.
I am forced to accept one,
as a trust exercise, as in,
he’s that dedicated to this place, he’ll eat anything.
Women usually live longer than men,
but not in the case of the Merriman’s,
or so the neighboring doctor says,
all that time eating mouldly sweets,
a childhood’s work with no pay off.
Every week I attend a job without knowing,
anticipatory smells develop prior to leaving home,
trundling down the tree lined lane,
its an old farm place, tidy and practical on the outside,
we count cattle and its usually sunny there for some reason.
In through the timber door I’m led,
to a dank back kitchen,
the smell accosts my nose,
mildew, wet Jack Russell and old spinster are the mixture of smells,
topped off with a pinch of old bachelor,
they have demeanors battered by miserableness,
and their clothes are stiff with dirt.
Charm and niceties are laid on thick,
like butter on the stale scones about the table,
playing your part is important,
but making eye contact isn’t,
as it leads to a tin coming down from beyond the tea stained Stanley,
a tin full of sweets from one of Jesus’s birthdays,
fudges, toffees, and the unloved coffees.
I am forced to accept one,
as a trust exercise, as in,
he’s that dedicated to this place, he’ll eat anything.
Women usually live longer than men,
but not in the case of the Merriman’s,
or so the neighboring doctor says,
all that time eating mouldly sweets,
a childhood’s work with no pay off.

A lot of time was spent there,
parking between the shell house and handball alley,
shoehorned into the sodden crumbling cliffs,
it was the safest place to be,
wedged between the horizon and the alley.
Giant cracked concrete steps,
led down to the sharp craggy foot of shale,
which divided the bay in two,
it propped itself against the waves,
as a heal against a revolving door,
in its worn away crevices, lay windows,
to encyclopaedias and nature books,
that sat open on my bedroom floor,
frail stringy green seaweed shadowed its edges,
offering shelter to anemone’s and rock crabs,
from small toes and snatchy grasps,
finding little was the usual,
but the distraction of any possibility was constant,
as we clambered each cut to the next tepid pot,
the sun’s reflection would escape beyond the headland,
and the pools would coalesce,
leaving foot washing as the task,
standing in the final evening wave,
fluid sand dragged from the boundary of each foot,
affirming the wonderment of rockpool alley.

Friday evening pickup for no reason,
clamber away to fill in a weekend,
first stop, the thatched place,
so he can get the taste again,
the old latch is still unworkable,
I duck down out of repetition, not need,
It’ll be years before the thatch touches my crann,
before I fill this frame,
the din exists permanently inside,
equal in both summer and winter,
the fire licks the glass of countless picture frames,
interesting and as constant, as where the people sit,
the ritual begins at the bar corner,
wide shoulders poured into a tweed jacket,
white wiry hair, just enough escaping the flat cap,
he turns and gives me a familiar glance,
as two thirds of this evening quota is supped down,
I’m moved on to the T.V room,
so as to avoid hearing gossip to big for small ears,
Friday men are in,
one with an eye that droops past his cheekbone,
one with a whoop louder than a possessed cuckoo,
inhaling red king, cheese onion, hitting the tongue like a bomb,
starch washed away by pints of orange,
lips cooled by half melted ice cubes,
watching the same film that started at 9,
occasionally the hatch is slide back,
only my name and a barwoman’s hands poke through,
more king and orange for the boy,
I get glimpses of the bar corner,
and try to lip read and interpret movements,
the hatch closes quickly and cuts me off again,
not a bad Friday night when your 12.

Within in hour, you’ll be there,
in a town on a cross and a derelict air,
from Monday to Friday there’s no one here,
just some children in someone else’s care.

The rush, the panic in tandem with the houses,
stacked back to back, between postage stamp grasses,
concrete walls and garden umbrellas,
with only their shadows existing in present.

On Saturday the gallop begins,
drive your tesla T to Aldi,
to buy 39 cent bean tins,
for your detached 5 year old identical twins.

Bring them to the standard park,
let them slide down the same slide, fall into the same tree bark,
walk the same monotonous 5 streets,
this existence was never imagined by Keats.

Tied down to car and seat,
life in motion, but only in combustion repeat,
recycled mornings and mirror views,
disconnection through affordable pews.

Trudge through lifeless moments,
not knowing the thousands within your weekend circumference,
live as a tribe an hour away,
isolated in the safety of societal grey.