The road wound down past Mureen Hill
Still, dull, glaucous
The place where my Mother was born
Towards the strange silent bog
Its forbidden charms and sweet earthy scents
Compelled me there every day

I drank in the heady air
Thick with the drone of bees
Hollow drips of water
Seeping into deep pools
Lazy currents of wind
Playing at the top of the whins
A peacock butterfly
Still against the warmth of the road
Little yellow flowers
Poking through the tar
Malin Head shimmering in the distance

My steps drummed up
Rich memories
Caught like beads of dew in soft webby cushions
Lying on my back in the heather
The sun on my face
Looking up at the sky
The sharp sweet taste of sorrel on my tongue
Combing Granny’s silky white hair
Her warm sweet baby smell
Wardrobes stuffed full of old clothes
Mothballs, lace mats, death sets
Granddaddy on the doorstep
Hands clasped behind his back
Watching the weather
On the Inishowen Hills

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