Thursday, 23 August 2018

Redundant


Severance
for my father

On Sundays we walked the line
from Drumglass to Edendork
You telling us of the time
you drove the  steam train
All the way to Cookstown.
Nettles stung our calves
as we leapt from one sleeper to another,
Sleepers that would later be ripped up
to bolster flower beds In suburbia.

On weekdays after school
we played at the freight train station
where you, as foreman, presided
braced and waist-coated,
Unloading and selecting goods for onward
delivery. Punching cards, whose presence 
or absence of holes, gave data. 
Overseeing the No 50
Fill up from the water tank.

We leapt on and off box cars
and covered wagons and hoppers
Until the engine began to groan
and chuff and emit steam
and hiss and lumber to a start,
Its cranks sprung into arm,
elbow, shoulder action,
Propelling the great wheels
around a parabolic
curve, under the Milltown
tunnel, heading for Derry

Until the ton miles hauled
per unit of energy consumed
was deemed too low,
The freight train redundant,
And you, after decades
of labour were let go,
 Uncompensated.

The freight train station in Dungannon closed in February 1965. It was not until August 1965 that The UK Redundancy Payment Act addressed comprehensively the question of severance payment  for redundant workers.

Copyright with Cathy Leonard 2018


Monday, 20 August 2018

Trips Abroad





Fear of Foreign Travel

You looked for skylines
To feel you had arrived
And narrow streets through which
we passed two abreast
And roof edges and gable walls
And mosaics of terra cotta tiles.
Otherwise the space was too
Wide. The foreignness of it all
Too great. The chattering
Throngs too unintelligible.
You felt like folding up,
Folding in on yourself.
Crouched in a hotel bedroom
You wanted to take the return
Flight home..... until
You angled your lens to the roof
Tops and shot corners and edges
Patchwork pieces of the big quilt.
And frame by frame
You settled into being there
Into Lyon
Into travel.

Copyright with Cathy Leonard 2018

Saturday, 18 August 2018

Still in Search of roots


Prompted by a census 1911 search I took a literal journey to my roots.


In Search of Mother

A journey I would not have taken,
Cross border, cross time
Into a past best forgotten,
If not to find the place
Where she was born.

A gap, an ache, a yawn,
In the row that used to house
The Hursons and the Dillons
And the Kirks and the Stewarts.

Their back yards now strewn
With black rubber tyres, rusted wheel
Rims, discarded spares and parts.
Nothing to salvage here
of her beginnings.


Copyright with Cathy Leonard 2018

Sunday, 29 July 2018

Who do you think you are?

In the Parish of Drumglass
In the Townland of Drumcoo

I scrolled back in time
In search of you.

And found you in Number 10
Barrack Street; Head of house.

Samuel, migrant from L'derry
Self professed foul merchant!

In a 2nd rate house
With a slate roof, not thatch

And stone walls, not mud.
Bereft of fowl house or piggery

Or cow house, store, or shed.
These, the preserve of neighbours

Three doors up
Who kicked with the other foot.

Barrack Street, a medley of RCs
And C of Is and Presbyterians.

Teresa Culbert, aged 73,
The only RC in the row

With a piggery, a turf house
And a shed to her name.

Copyright with Cathy Leonard 2018

Thursday, 12 July 2018

Chequered

Like grass, root-burnt
longing for rain

Or reservoired floods
suppressed and restrained

And sediments damed
that could sustain

My hope is chequered
in heart fist pain

Waiting for pressure
to suspend

Waiting for free-flow
to prevail

Copyright with Cathy Leonard 2018

Tuesday, 10 July 2018

Beached


Where was my head
when I fell for you

Through marram grass
pinching like sand crabs

down the slip face
of a sand dune

Landing on drift line of
Spring, full-moon tide

Ensnared in flotsam
and jetsam and items sundry

Caught and enmeshed
in bladderwrack

Entangled at uppermost limit
of wave swash

Swallowed and beached
and marooned on your shore

Copyright with Cathy Leonard 2018

Thursday, 5 July 2018

Portal

for my mother

Already I have forgotten the sound of your voice
Calling out my name

And the way your mouth buckled when you smiled,
Your hand raised to mend it

And you, stately in profile, your Roman nose
Less regal when you fell off a step ladder

Inspecting the paint patch he’d missed,
Taking your own swipe at it

Landing in Emergency. Nose re-set.
The last shot of you together, taken from across

The lake, walking in file, you behind him,
A tree trunk between you, a lake between us

The trunk- a portal you couldn’t pass through-
Three years later the ground opened up for you.