John Montague(b. 1929)
Like Dolmens Round My Childhood, the Old People
Like d o l m e n s r o u n d m y c h i l d h o o d , t h e old people.
J a m i e M a c C r y s t a l s a n g t o h i m s e l f ,
A b r o k e n s o n g w i t h o u t t u n e , w i t h o u t words;
He tipped me a p e n n y every p e n s i o n day.
F e d kindly c r u s t s to w i n t e r birds.
W h e n h e died, his c o t t a g e was r o b b e d ,
M a t t r e s s a n d m o n e y box torn a n d s e a r c h e d .
O n l y t h e c o r p s e t h e y didn't d i s t u r b .
Maggie O w e n s was s u r r o u n d e d by a n i m a l s ,
A mongrel bitch and shivering pups,
Even in h e r b e d r o o m a she-goat cried.
S h e was a well of gossip defiled,2
F a n g e d c h r o n i c l e r of a w h o l e c o u n t r y s i d e ;
R e p u t e d a witch, all I could find
W a s h e r lonely n e e d to deride.
T h e Nialls lived along a m o u n t a i n lane
W h e r e h e a t h e r bells b l o o m e d , c l u m p s of foxglove.
All w e r e blind, with Blind P e n s i o n a n d Wireless,3
D e a d eyes s e r p e n t - f l i c k e d as o n e e n t e r e d
To s h e l t e r f r o m a d o w n p o u r of m o u n t a i n rain.
Crickets chirped under the rocking hearthstone
Until the muddy sun shone out again.
M a r y M o o r e lived in a c r u m b l i n g g a t e h o u s e ,
F a m o u s as Pisa4 for its l e a n i n g gable.
Bag-apron a n d boots, s h e t r a m p e d t h e fields
Driving lean c a t t l e f r o m a miry stable.
A by-word for fierceness, s h e fell asleep
Over love stories, R e d S t a r a n d R e d Circle,5
D r e a m e d of gypsy love rites, by firelight sealed.
Wild Billy Eagleson married a Catholic servant girl
When all his Loyal6 family passed on:
We danced round him shouting "To Hell with King Billy,7
And dodged from the arc of his flailing blackthorn. 0 knobbed cane
Forsaken by both creeds, he showed little concern
Until the Orange 0 drums banged past in the summerProtestant
And bowler and sash aggressively shone.
Curate and doctor trudged to attend them,
Through knee-deep snow, through summer heat,
From main road to lane to broken path,
Gulping the mountain air with painful breath.
Sometimes they were found by neighbours,
Silent keepers of a smokeless hearth,
Suddenly cast in the mould of death.
Ancient Ireland, indeed! I was reared by her bedside,
The rune and the chant, evil eye and averted head,
Fomorian8 fierceness of family and local feud.
Gaunt figures of fear and of friendliness,
For years they trespassed on my dreams,
Until once, in a standing circle of stones,9
I felt their shadows pass
Into that dark permanence of ancient forms.