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?