The ferry out of Anglesey,
Holyhead-Dun Laoghaire route (now closed),
Walking the decks
Out of the wind,
I found a map of Ireland
Seen from somewhere out in space –
A satellite photo
Of the place
Part-submerged in blue Atlantic water –
Its outline
Of a floating embryo
In a blurry ultrasound of weather
Spiralling inward
To a navel
Somewhere shy of Limerick’s umbilical Shannon.
I couldn’t unsee it –
In the sway of a rough crossing,
Steadying myself
Out of the belly of the wind –
That was a map
Of me out of my depth,
Going back as I was
Over my mother’s journey
Out of Ireland,
When there were no satellites
And no way back on any map she knew of
Wasn’t the swirl of steam
And stories in her own kitchen.
How was I to stand
A grown man
On the bog-soft abdomen of Ireland?
That old, clump-booted
Back to the womb
Oedipal failure of mine?
Among people who wouldn’t know me,
Except as I talk
It was my mother taught me,
And taught me
How to walk?
I’d be a bundled astronaut
Splashed down
In a bog,
And be laughed at
For the smattering of Irish
Oscail an doras and dún an doras
On my alien tongue –
Opening and closing
All the doors that wondered
What was that?
As a wave crashed over the bow
And the boat lurched,
Then tilted,
Someone asked a crewman
Could we please turn back?
No wonder, ploughing on,
I felt unsettled
By that map of my misgivings,
Looking back
When I could have gone on with my life
Just fine
And not told anyone
That’s where my mother’s from –
Part settled Irish and part Traveller,
And that I miss her
Now she’s gone.
A part of me was dumb
That didn’t have her anymore
To steady my feet,
And hold my tongue
When I should feel my way
Towards a place of love –
Returning
To a ghost of her among her people,
Watchful, silent, young,
The sudden rueful laughter in her eyes
Nigh on invisible
To anyone but me –
A child myself,
Blown in backwards from the sea
On a rocking ferry
And not the wit
To know myself already born,
The wreck I was,
To stand the storms of loss,
Of change,
The moving on –
Wrong-footed, bereft,
And out of my depth
Until I stepped into her neighbour’s kitchen –
Bridie, I’m my mother’s son.
I know who you are, she says, come in –
Stood at her table to meet the wind.
You look like your grandfather,
And you’ve a lovely tan.