Published in “A New Ulster “ Magazine - Issue 63 – 2017

Made it! – pay for ticket, grab it, stick it

into checking machine, pull it out, push

through into Station, run onto platform –

right, train just curving down the line

from Balbriggan towards Skerries - stand

catching my breath and watching the

new green leaves of Spring on the trees

up the road towards Milverton, white

clouds piling in from the sea .... and

“Please Stand Behind Yellow line”, more

gold than yellow... as the train door

hisses open, and I step on board, look

for seat at window, all taken, hate sitting

on the outside but can't be helped,

woman staring out the window, flicking a

glance as I search for notebook, fountain

pen (love fountain-pens) - would really

prefer to be on the inside myself but

anyway – train moving slowly as

Windmill, Watermill, Mill Pond,

Martello Tower on Shenick Island slide

past across the aisle - scribble a bit -

people talking on mobiles, talking to one

another, young man with woolly hat,

“She threw me out, but I have to see the

baby, the Judge said ”, and we're

beginning to pickupspeed – other

young man, “Me, I spent St. Patrick's

Day in the Garda Station – me sister

came and bailed me out” -

beautifully-cut black hair, designer

stubble, and I watch as the smooth green

Golf Course flies past, and through the

opposite window, the Lighthouse faint in

mist out at sea , and a girl in the seat

across from me taps at her laptop, red

hair, tan boots, long coat - black, - mine

dark blue, scarf, white woolly hat that I

stuff into my bag, warm high boots,

writing fast, trying to get it all down as I

will try for the next forty-or-so minute

journey to Dublin , gold fountain-pen nib

moving fast, moving towards Clontarf

(Hello!) , Connolly, Pearse - but first

rushing towards Rush (hah!) and Lusk...

and I'm watching out for the castle on the

hill, something...something - Bal -

Baldungan - supposed to have been built

by the Knights Templar, the warrior

monks - must look them up - and the

train begins to slow down , no

rushing now (snigger) and then stops

, the car-park full, red, white, blue

...cars left earlier by commuters

working in the City...and a hiss and

some boys and girls get on, going to

College, maybe...laughing, shiny hair,

laptops out of satchels, fingers flying

already, and the door closes and we

are off again....slowly gathering

speed.... all the stations, all the stops and

all the people - Portrane coming into

view, Lambay Island off the coast - learnt

about that at school - the Vikings

landing on Lambay Island, the Vikings

coming up the Shannon to Limerick too.

Lom na n-each, The Bare Place of the

Horses, - Limerick, a sore place in my

heart, the City of Pogroms and

Sodalities, of long summer days by the

Shannon, of primroses and violets in

Spring, of pussywillow and corncrakes,

the City of the Broken Treaty – broken

- leave that , don't think about all that

...the

train fillingup, the early passengers going

to jobs, more and more again finding

work in Dublin as the recession ends, but

not down here, says my brother-in-law,

no recovery down here as he tries to keep

a family firm going, importing oak and

mahogany from all over the world , trees

that once covered Ireland , “cad a

dhéanfhaimíd feasta gan adhmaid “–

seized by England for England's

Elizabethan ships, that garnered (great

word that!) an Empire for that small

country ..... and I hope I'll be able to read

my awful scrawl back, the result of all

those English compositions years ago at

school - and outside an old grey stone

house, some glass houses pewter under a

leaden sky, golden furse in the ditches -

or gorse- or whin - gorse we called it

down our way - always loved that nutty

almondy scent - green spiky leaves,

white daisies in the fields, clusters of

tiny golden flowers ...all of us...all of us

walking out into the country, kettle, pan,

collecting wood, making tea, boiled

potatoes for frying, sausages, jelly and

custard in jam-jars - all of us.......and

there's a notice up on the carriage wall -

“Réabhlóid 1916, Rebellion 19l6 - Come

to Dublin, Experience the Pageants, the

Exhibitions , the Re-enactments “ - an

invitation to the Nation to celebrate... no,

I prefer commemorate - Easter Monday

1916 when a small group of men and

women - extraordinary men and women -

poets, writers, actors, dreamers, rose up

against England, while the Great War

raged, The War to End All Wars,

“England's difficulty, Ireland's

opportunity”, a ferment of ideas that

brought about a change, the plays and the

poems – and “Step into History” - that

billboard on the wall again...all

that...and again the train slowing

down at Donabate but not so many

passngers now...all that energy, all over

Ireland, clubs and organizations ,

feminist groups, political groups -

G.A.A. , Cumann na mBan, National

Volunteers, National Women's Franchise

League, Irish Volunteers - and the Abbey

Theatre a melting pot (cliche that - but I

like it, nice rhythm, ”mel - ting – pot”)

anyway, a list as long as your arm of

actors of both sexes, playwrights, screen

painters, wardrobe mistresses, all

working towards political freedom,

religious freedom, personal freedom, and

- “Did a play of mine send those men out

to die?“ - ah, for feck's sake, Mr. Yeats,

it wasn't just your play and anyway,

Lady Gregory wrote most of it! – and

the train pulls away from Donabate,

matted couch-grass on the sides of the

high banks and the moving red digital

line over the door into the next carriage,

- An Céad Stáisiún – the next Station -

“Jesus Falls the Second Time” – moving

down through the Church, praying at

each Station – each station bringing me

nearer to the City, - the Eternal City? -

(Getting carried away with yourself now,

Marie!) ) - and then the Malahide

embankment, sheets of silver-grey water

on each side, marshy land, water holes

and grey old reeds, no new life yet,

boatyards, apartments, - thinking of the

chat and talk in Dublin , about books, the

work, the hopes – and again a hiss and a

stop , people getting on and off, and a

hiss again - sky still grey, the train

running between high banks of old

bracken now , trees skeletal here , the

low sun of Spring not yet able to do the

work of regeneration, and we're slowing

towards Portmarnock, and yellow lines

again ... Please Stand Behind... man on

platform, grey hair, bomber jacket,

grumpy – old , old station hut, grey

stone, fluted wooden ornamentation on

peak of roof beside car park “Stad

Carranna – Car Stop? - Carranna,? -

Carrana? ... what happened to

“Gluaisteáin? - many of us still not able

to speak our own language after nearly

thirteen years of intensive learning at

school – but book learning – no

conversation and no fun at all! - unless

you were lucky and joined some kind of

Irish-speaking group and lived in the

language - and outside now new houses,

hipped roofs, cream – row after

row.....and apartments – but half-built -

the ghosts of the Celtic Tiger boom times

– young people living in half-finished

estates, children playing against high

metal fences, the dream of your own

house, your own place - but stranded

now, no chance of selling up...who would

want to buy here? ..and more and more

houses , older, inhabited, the

grey-painted stairs over the railway lines

at Howth Junction, girl standing reading

on the platform as we go by, boots, a

mini-skirt (never go out of fashion\!) and

the train rushing towards the City, station

after station, no stopping now, churches,

factories, the Dublin Mountains in the

distance, the Liffey on the

left......beginning to get frazzled , trying

to catch it all , the ideas, images ,

memories passing through my mind –

over a bridge, a small river, Poolbeg twin

chimney stacks coming nearer, houses to

the left, to the right, big, small, streets

winding through, and the woman on my

left still glumly looking out the window-

when I could perhaps have passed the

time of day with her, talked about this

and that, even heard her story – rattling

across that old bridge , always nervously,

- but I am too busy getting it down,

making it happen on the page, and I and I

...I'm tired now and want to finish, but I

won't let myself, I'll go on......passengers

chatting, boy pulling out ear-phones,

woman settling her hat, putting on

gloves, girls flicking hair, laughing,

excited...very near Dublin now, only

Connolly, Tara and then finally....

..Pearse, the station named after one of

the Signatories of the Proclamation , the

visionary - the teacher - author of the

book, “The Murder Machine”, not about

the Blood Sacrifice, although he wrote

about that too, put words into his

mother's mouth, “I do not grudge them,

Lord, I do not grudge my two strong

sons” ... but I would have grudged mine,

and my two precious daughters too,

screeched against my great loss...but she

was proud of her sacrifice, they say, God

help her....a different time.... slowing

down now.... slowing down and

stopping at Connolly Station , James

Connolly the workers' champion ,

wounded at the Post Office, carried out,

seated in a chair.... shot dead by the

British........and as the train slowly glides

away towards Butt Bridge, I am excited

again, as always, from when I was at

school and loved history and loved the

idea of Dublin, all the buildings, all the

lives lived, all the....”the passing parade”

- me, fourteen - standing outside the

Gaiety Theatre , brought by my aunt all

the way from Limerick to see an

opera....watching it all....and the train is

edging into the Centre of the City, the

high blocks of offices beginning their

stately waltz, showing first one

facade...and then another.... as the

railway line curves towards the iron

bridge , the glass pagoda of Liberty Hall

silver-pewter under the grey sky.... green

white and gold flag flying over the

Custom's House ....and there's the Liffey

below, streets either side crowded with

cars, lorries, buses, traffic lights green ,

the white paper of a new page catching

the gathering words, the gold nib

flashing, as the train enters Tara

Street Station, (the harp that once

....hah!) ...and again the carriage door

hissing open, people jostling, rushing ...

door closing, and the high buildings

graceful, a slow waltz again, the street

below swaying between shops and pubs

and offices as the train glides into

Pearse Street Station , quiet now at this

mid-morning hour, passengers gathering

bags, closing down laptops, pigeons

fluttering towards the Victorian glass and

iron roof as the train slows down

and stops ...and I stop. End of the line.