Waving Goodbye to the Ferry on Sunday Evening

The massive engine would growl and roar into life, you could feel its strength within your chest.

It never frightened me, I was used to it, every Sunday evening.

Long walks for small legs, along Dun Laoghaire pier,

Bejeweled wealthy women would tug their hats up close around their ears

As the rats scurried along behind the giant sea wall.

We would reach the end as the lighthouse greeted us with a beaming red wink.

People gathered and looked out at the sea for just a moment, then looked back to shore

The hacked out scar of Killiney Quarry upon which they now stood.

“The atmospheric railway” took it all down here, don’t you know?

The folk would congratulate themselves, you could see their house if you squinted

You couldn't miss its new paint job, the monstrosity visible from outer space.

It was, most definitely, the “right” part of town.

The wealthy, the successful, the obnoxious, the odious and the cheats.

My father faced the other way.

The massive engine approached the yawning mouth before him.

It gave two loud shouts, you don’t want to be in this guys way it warned.

A word came in my ear, every Sunday evening at this great sight

The sight of the huge boat leaving, off to lands unknown, far, far away.

I had no idea where the boat was going, Holyhead, perhaps near Holywood

That sounded great to me, perhaps they’ll meet Chewbacca.

But in my ear a warning told me that this was not what lay ahead

My dad had seen a different life in Ireland.

“There’s a man on board” he’d warn, “and he’s waving out at this old pier”

So I waved back, wishing I was going on a great adventure off to sea

Like a pirate, or a great explorer. Magellan and his merry men.

But he wasn't waving back at me, my dads eyes scanned a mother on the lower pier

A tissue in her hand as her son left home, she didn't seem excited.

“The man on board is waving out goodbye my son, he’s never coming back

He might say he’ll return soon, but he wont.”

The cold air would seem colder and I gripped my fathers hand.

A little tighter than before.

Why would anybody leave their dad behind, why not take him too?

The dads in Holyhead could greet him I thought, but would they stand in goal?

I imagined Dick Whittington, with a cloth sack tied around a long stick

Containing his worldly goods.

And Londons streets were not paved with gold it seemed.

I’d wave goodbye to the explorer as the ferry disappeared into the mist

The other boats would shout goodbye as we headed home for chips and milky tea

Now I think of that poor mother, standing on the pier

Did she ever see her son again? It was, after all 1988. Lemons had been invented.

He’d be safe.

She would get a cheque every week and he would post a picture of his new wife.

They would visit home at Christmas.

As evening now falls, I hear the bells sing with me as I hurry home amidst the crowds,

Back to my wife and children. St Pauls tells me it’s not far.

I have no ferry stories for them. There is no giant pier near me.

A man in a torn, whiskey stained coat stumbles against the wall as I cross by Bethnal Green

He tries to ask me for a light as a pigeon pecks at his discarded sandwich.

I wonder if his mother misses him as much as I miss my father?