Homework 29/12/14 - PHANTOM FOOTSTEPS

[Maureen K Clifford]

PHANTOM FOOTSTOPS …. Maureen Clifford © The Scribbly Bark Poet



His family came from Ireland – their lives with troubles were fraught
and the long potato famine was the end
It took their friends and family – two daughters and a son
they were tough but at the last they could not bend.
Their stone cottage demolished by a landlord hard and cruel
and nothing in the paddocks to make even thinnest gruel
and their last chicken was eaten , ‘twas the last few days of yule
it was cold and there was snow but not a stable.

The glory days were gone now though they never had been rich
but their children went to school and were well fed
They’d two horses housed in a barn, a jaunting cart as well
and bicycles for Tom and Sam and Fred.
But fate turned against Ireland and bought the populace low
‘twas only English landlords who were immune to the blow
of failed crops, and harsh weather and no other place to go.
All sold, and pawned and ate their prized possessions.

The parish priest gave what he could – they sold their worldly goods
and gathered scant possessions in a swag.
A quilt hand stitched by mother from worn rags that had been clothes
to poor were they to even own a bag.
Their feet in rags were swaddled as they headed on their way
the bitter cold and frost and sleet saw more die every day
as to the coast they headed with their hopes in disarray -
but the picture in their mind was of Australia.

***

Five generations on the family lived down near the Quay
their cottage built of stone was aged and worn
but sturdy and still standing – it was built in convict times
by men of Irish descent – shackled, shorn.
Back then the harbour waters were busy with skiff and sail
with tall ships moored along the shores and men marked by the flail
from nations all across the world - today not all were pale
the harbour still a melting pot of nations.

He learnt to sail the harbour’s waves in a small dinghy red;
could read the wind – anticipate the puff.
He progressed onto river boats and got his masters ticket
and became a ferry captain, tanned and tough.
But always in his soul he heard the song Ireland was singing,
she called to him at night in dreams, dim memories were clinging.
He heard her call and heeded and soon his long strides were swinging
‘cross the Irish hills of Knocknashee near Sligo.

He took a pot of Irish soil to bring back to Australia
and left a pot of Aussie soil behind.
He placed flowers on the hearth of the old black and ruined cottage
it’s glassless windows in stone walls now blind.
Hoisted his swag and headed back along the narrow rutted track
his past behind him with old dreams and one small stone built shack.
A Hanoi ticket in his jeans and now time to be heading back
to Mans Head Island out in Halong Bay.

[Neville Briggs]

Interesting Maureen. It doesn't seem to have regular formal metre, sounds to me like a sort of free verse with rhyming end words. You seem to have the nostalgic mood well done , which is a bit hard for me to fully understand as I don't identify with Irish.
I'm afraid the allusion to Hanoi escapes me ?

I don't mean to sound negative, it looks good to me, got the mood and pathos that I think you were after.

[Maureen K Clifford]

Thanks Neville - writing to Hanoi was merely to fulfill the requirement of the Homework challenge. the 3rd picture was a ferry on the river at Hanoi during the Lotus festival - the ending I have put to the poem since then is as follows...

He took a pot of Irish soil to bring back to Australia
and left a pot of Aussie soil behind.
He placed flowers on the hearth of the old black and ruined cottage
its glassless windows in stone walls now blind.
Hoisted his swag and headed out along the narrow rutted track
his past behind him with old dreams and one small stone built shack.
His mind heard Kookaburra's laughter, loud, calling him back
He was heading home for Christmas in Australia .....

She was decked in yellow wattle blossom and red bottlebrush
and the lorikeets wore their Christmas regalia.

[Neville Briggs]

OK.