We’d cram into Dad’s Austin Wolseley, 

like tinned kippers, unrolled 

and unsalted in the back seat. 

Smoking class was reserved, up front,

on our Sunday pilgrimage to visit Nana.

First to spot the waterfall was the winner.

 

Ben Bulben was fixed on our horizon,

feeling like a compass point,

it arced our path along the south coast of Donegal.

We never felt far from home and 

on warm days she looked nearer,

appearing like a Fata Morgana.

Her ancient breath resonated across the bay,

like the tides, rising and falling.

At any time, 

an unearthly troop of hurrying spirits might pour through.

 

Passing Killybegs, we were scolded for

daring to unfurl the back windows, 

sacrificing the choke of smoked air 

for the fresh stink of processed fish. 

I was never sure if it was an old piseóg

but we were warned not to point at boats.

I pondered this, for at the regatta in Teelin, 

I’d witnessed Jimmy ‘Bulligan’, happily

point to the winning skiff, without incident.

 

My grandfather, who’d built homes

from timber, washed up like flotsam, 

from shipwrecks during the war,

recalled a bad omen at Teelin,

where fishermen sacrificed the day’s fish

to a stubborn seagull who refused to 

vacate a wizened head.

Superstition littered our piers, like old lobster pots,

brimming of woe, not to mention the fox 

or the hare, or to dare dance with women of red hair.

 

With our window rewound, 

Ben Bulben swung out of view.

The winner of the waterfall declared,

we’d carry on carefree,

still pointing at boats,

lost in the clatter of childhood.

 

*piseóg - Irish for and old superstition