Bhíos ag cur síos dó ar fhear Inis Cara
a chuir saothar seanBhíobla ar fhocail,
a chuir turraing aibhléise
le huisinn na teanga
nó gur labhair an eitinn
is an Uimhir Dhé
ar leathscamhóg as béal a chéile.
Bhí babhlaí briste is conamar cainte
scaipthe romhainn sa tslí
ó Mhaigh Cuilinn go Ros Cathail,
gléas ón ngrian ar chlogad a chinn
is a bhlaosc chomh maol le muga cré
i suíochán an bháis lem ais.
Bhí an t-am ag scinneadh tharainn
ar luas gluaisteáin ón tSeapáin,
fallaí fuara scoite aige cheana ina cheann
dom thabhairt leis siar
leathchéad bliain go dtí Oileán Leodhais
mar ar bhrúigh béal na baintrí
lus mínáireach an chromchinn faoi chois
chomh diongbháilte le téacs seanTiomna.
Chuir sí de gheasa air, dá mhéid a íota,
gan deoir a bhlaiseadh i gcroit ná i mbothán
mar a raibh fríd an ghalair á cuisniú
ag miasa is mugaí scoilte,
tinneas ina ráfla mailíseach á scaipeadh
chomh huilechumhachtach dofheicthe
le trócaire Dé ar thairseach an tsaoil. |
I was telling him about the man in Inis Cara
who made words work hard as an old Bible,
who sent electric shocks
through the temples of language
until tuberculosis and the binary number
spoke as one voice
with damaged breath.
Broken bowls and shards of talk
were scattered before us on the road
from Moycullen to Roscahill,
the sun glinting on the helmet of his head
bare as a cup
in the death-seat beside me.
Time skidded past us
like a Japanese car and already
he was clearing stone walls in his head
taking me with him
fifty years back to the Isle of Lewis
where the widow’s words
trampled the shameless daffodil
with the certainty of a lesson from the Old Testament.
She made him promise,
whatever his thirst,
not to touch
a drop in any croft or cottage
where a hint of disease might have lodged
in cracked mugs or dishes,
as sickness spread like a vicious rumour
all-powerful and invisible
as God’s mercy on the threshold of the world. |
