In honor of National Poetry Month – and in honor of my father, who told me to read this poem, here is:<\/p>\n
Like Dolmens Round My Childhood, The Old People<\/b>
\nby John Montague<\/i><\/p>\n
Like dolmens round my childhood, the old people.<\/p>\n
Jamie MacCrystal sang to himself,
\nA broken song without tune, without words;
\nHe tipped me a penny every pension day,
\nFed kindly crusts to winter birds.
\nWhen he died his cottage was robbed,
\nMattress and money box torn and searched.
\nOnly the corpse they didn’t disturb.<\/p>\n
Maggie Owens was surrounded by animals,
\nA mongrel bitch and shivering pups,
\nEven in her bedroom a she-goat cried.
\nShe was a well of gossip defiled,
\nFanged chronicler of a whole countryside:
\nReputed a witch, all I could find
\nWas her lonely need to deride.<\/p>\n
The Nialls lived along a mountain lane
\nWhere heather bells bloomed, clumps of foxglove.
\nAll were blind, with Blind Pension and Wireless,
\nDead eyes serpent-flicked as one entered
\nTo shelter from a downpour of mountain rain.
\nCrickets chirped under the rocking hearthstone
\nUntil the muddy sun shone out again.<\/p>\n
Mary Moore lived in a crumbling gatehouse,
\nFamous as Pisa for its leaning gable.
\nBag-apron and boots, she tramped the fields
\nDriving lean cattle from a miry stable.
\nA by-word for fierceness, she fell asleep
\nOver love stories, Red Star and Red Circle,
\nDreamed of gypsy love rites, by firelight sealed.<\/p>\n
Wild Billy Eagleson married a Catholic servant girl
\nWhen all his Loyal family passed on:
\nWe danced round him shouting “To Hell with King Billy,”
\nAnd dodged from the arc of his flailing blackthorn.
\nForsaken by both creeds, he showed little concern
\nUntil the Orange drums banged past in the summer
\nAnd bowler and sash aggressively shone.<\/p>\n
Curate and doctor trudged to attend them,
\nThrough knee-deep snow, through summer heat,
\nFrom main road to lane to broken path,
\nGulping the mountain air with painful breath.
\nSometimes they were found by neighbours,
\nSilent keepers of a smokeless hearth,
\nSuddenly cast in the mould of death.<\/p>\n
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