I’m in the garden, dozing. There’s a square window, dead centre, with steam pouring out. My brother
ducks under doors. The bathroom left in steamy and wet smithereens. Ten thousand towels for a floor.
I see myself in the shower, sixteen and singing, or mouthing along with Bruce Springsteen. You can’t
start a fire, worrying about your little world falling apart. Small sharp pimples on baby-fat flesh.
The smoke of burnt rashers lit through the glass-paned back-door. Burnt not for neglect, but
Dad’s taste for carbon - you’d need badger-teeth to bite through his steak. It’s not often everyone’s
home for a fry. Seán’s out in Limerick in his granny-flat-frat-house, while Michael’s in Dublin with
his roommates and wife.
I’ll be in in a minute, hold on.
A bare apple tree’s trunk. A million black-spotted apples – hard as chestnuts or conkers –
cover the soil. Give the dog a good laugh, throw them into the field. Over the thatch. Against the
football-bruised wall out the back. The ash was diseased so we cut half of it down, now our washing-
line’s too long and bendy. An ash-branch props up the thorn, because that’s diseased too. But all the
flowers, in fairness, look lovely.
The grass never grew in the back garden, but it’s full now the football is gone. When I moved
away I had plans to wake up at 5 and knead dough which would rise with the sun. I’d have a dog and
join five-a-side football. I’d have a garden and herbs of my own.
I said I’ll be in, just hold on.
I remember the summertime here. Driving out to Pairc Tailteann, before the Boyne meets the
Blackwater, to see Michael fight for the Tom Keegan Cup. Long sticks of men who smoke cigarillos,
discussing the match, discussing deceased – ‘Meath’s Muhammad Ali’, cut down in his prime, at the
young age of just 83.
The Harvest Festival too. Revived post-recession, in 2011, with nothing else, really, to do.
Forget foreign holidays, you reap what you sow; Bulmer’s in backpacks; one fella bottled at the
business park bus-stop across from the workhouse; a man in a hat in front of a tractor, named Donald.
I said that I’m coming.
Wet turf out the back, half-burnt and soaked through – birds wailing above in the thatch.
Flying around in our roof while we froze in our beds – their delicate claws like the paws of a mouse.
Small bubbles of mice you couldn’t fold if you wanted – only for ham-baited traps.
ducks under doors. The bathroom left in steamy and wet smithereens. Ten thousand towels for a floor.
I see myself in the shower, sixteen and singing, or mouthing along with Bruce Springsteen. You can’t
start a fire, worrying about your little world falling apart. Small sharp pimples on baby-fat flesh.
The smoke of burnt rashers lit through the glass-paned back-door. Burnt not for neglect, but
Dad’s taste for carbon - you’d need badger-teeth to bite through his steak. It’s not often everyone’s
home for a fry. Seán’s out in Limerick in his granny-flat-frat-house, while Michael’s in Dublin with
his roommates and wife.
I’ll be in in a minute, hold on.
A bare apple tree’s trunk. A million black-spotted apples – hard as chestnuts or conkers –
cover the soil. Give the dog a good laugh, throw them into the field. Over the thatch. Against the
football-bruised wall out the back. The ash was diseased so we cut half of it down, now our washing-
line’s too long and bendy. An ash-branch props up the thorn, because that’s diseased too. But all the
flowers, in fairness, look lovely.
The grass never grew in the back garden, but it’s full now the football is gone. When I moved
away I had plans to wake up at 5 and knead dough which would rise with the sun. I’d have a dog and
join five-a-side football. I’d have a garden and herbs of my own.
I said I’ll be in, just hold on.
I remember the summertime here. Driving out to Pairc Tailteann, before the Boyne meets the
Blackwater, to see Michael fight for the Tom Keegan Cup. Long sticks of men who smoke cigarillos,
discussing the match, discussing deceased – ‘Meath’s Muhammad Ali’, cut down in his prime, at the
young age of just 83.
The Harvest Festival too. Revived post-recession, in 2011, with nothing else, really, to do.
Forget foreign holidays, you reap what you sow; Bulmer’s in backpacks; one fella bottled at the
business park bus-stop across from the workhouse; a man in a hat in front of a tractor, named Donald.
I said that I’m coming.
Wet turf out the back, half-burnt and soaked through – birds wailing above in the thatch.
Flying around in our roof while we froze in our beds – their delicate claws like the paws of a mouse.
Small bubbles of mice you couldn’t fold if you wanted – only for ham-baited traps.
A great sack of chicken feed bursting through our old bin. My poor morning hands reaching
in on a Monday and feeling those animal rats. Mice are like insects, birds – something else. A rat’s
like a dog. A small dog that hates you.
Stop calling me, please!
When I’m anxious I eat. I rush to the shop in a panic. I buy steak and potatoes and burn this
false feast in ten minutes or less. I am, after all, my father’s son; only, I wish I could burn with his
same quiet passion.
Bring a sliotar, a hurl, a football, a dog and go down to the pitch to pick blackberries. There
was one time, I think, we made blackberry tea but I can’t remember the taste.
What’s the rush? I’m going NOWHERE.
Once we got fuel from a man in the village. Three bags of turf as a thank you. We stacked it
around our cast-iron stove, tucked into red-brick at the back. Not hot enough there to combust – we
assured one another – before the house nearly burned to the ground. Dad was cooking above when the
alarm started going so, naturally enough, we ignored it.
Brick after brick of still-smoking peat, battered into buckets and thrown out in the wet. Mam
was mad for a week, but me and the birds and the mice were quite happy. The house, that night, was
nearly thirty degrees.
I’m sorry. . . I’m coming.
‘Maddie’s after making a potion’. We shone our lights on the gin-clear and twice as potent
liquid brewing inside of our bird-bath. Now a distillery vat, we drank from the puddle as the end of
the summer crept up from under our feet. That was four years ago and Maddie’s in Canada now.
Steam pours out a window on a September morning when the fields all around are still black.
There’s only two cubes of light with a crease down the middle. All the light in the world, now I’m
back.
in on a Monday and feeling those animal rats. Mice are like insects, birds – something else. A rat’s
like a dog. A small dog that hates you.
Stop calling me, please!
When I’m anxious I eat. I rush to the shop in a panic. I buy steak and potatoes and burn this
false feast in ten minutes or less. I am, after all, my father’s son; only, I wish I could burn with his
same quiet passion.
Bring a sliotar, a hurl, a football, a dog and go down to the pitch to pick blackberries. There
was one time, I think, we made blackberry tea but I can’t remember the taste.
What’s the rush? I’m going NOWHERE.
Once we got fuel from a man in the village. Three bags of turf as a thank you. We stacked it
around our cast-iron stove, tucked into red-brick at the back. Not hot enough there to combust – we
assured one another – before the house nearly burned to the ground. Dad was cooking above when the
alarm started going so, naturally enough, we ignored it.
Brick after brick of still-smoking peat, battered into buckets and thrown out in the wet. Mam
was mad for a week, but me and the birds and the mice were quite happy. The house, that night, was
nearly thirty degrees.
I’m sorry. . . I’m coming.
‘Maddie’s after making a potion’. We shone our lights on the gin-clear and twice as potent
liquid brewing inside of our bird-bath. Now a distillery vat, we drank from the puddle as the end of
the summer crept up from under our feet. That was four years ago and Maddie’s in Canada now.
Steam pours out a window on a September morning when the fields all around are still black.
There’s only two cubes of light with a crease down the middle. All the light in the world, now I’m
back.
