Irish American

Wherever I lay my Hat That’s my Home

The rusted hinges still hold the old wooden gate standing

in memories long since past. I see in the shade where once the front door was

shadows from the man of the house as he once stood at tea time.

Propped below the lintel of the doorway, a tradition still held today, right hand on hip

left pressed high on the wooded frame of red tapping out with rhythm, rebel songs in his head.

All around the wild grass dwells and dry stone walls hold petal heads in craggy beds,

an art not yet lost all kept within stone boarders.

“Aye just a wee patch of land, sure it’s only a stretch of the legs

from Murphy’s bar five miles down the road”,

so we were told.

And over head the roof is spread on thatch long since laid dark and dead

A soggy hill of straw and twine of moss a place for winter birds when lost,

to live till summer pasted. And the roof its line with the sky

broken only by way of the old chimney towering rugged and faded

brick stone built pretending to fall it leans, now wearing a grass hat it seems.

But looking at that doorway it’s just the same, the white and flaking stone boulders

still stand waiting, stacked square for framing any stranger That would fair

to duck their head and enter through for rest of soul.

I can see it still,

the open fire and swinging hook a place to wash yerself and cook

by heat of turf, seldom coal, more frequent long rough cut rectangles.

Some seemed to twist in stacks either side on the red tiles as they dried

Aye sure I remember it well, the damp racks, of darken black,

Gave the room its comfort smell from boggy meadows dwell.

I remember when the coats hung high

on iron peg hooks that grew out of the wall like granny’s fingers.

Just there beyond the doorway, God! a lifetime there our wears and cares

And under the stairs behind a blind of flour bag linen was hidden everything

from shoes to rows of wooded pegs bleached white from hanging clothes

the smell of boot polish in the air that place beneath the stairs.

And a shelf I called Ma’hatin A name I gave it as a youngster with a smile

a name so similar I would call “home” one day, I sigh as the tears well in each eye

the very shelf where my fathers favourite scoop, his paddy hat sat flat.

It makes me smile to here the echo’s in my head

“Right then I’m goin for a drink, Where’s me cap?”

My mothers face full red she rolled her eyes and paced biting lip hands on hip.

“Its not where yea left it! I’ll give yea that”

“Ah shut up! yea sour oul cat” my father blurted out, slammed the door and that was that.

Its sad for me, for all that’s left is now an empty open doorway to my past

still, is see them there, even today together forever arguing the peace out, love at war

And its nice to see them now if for only brief in mind, I miss their nattier and me Da’s clatter.

I long that they would turn and with outstretched arms would shout

“he’s home auk son we missed ye like a bad potato, how I long to hold them tight.

To feel my mother’s cold hands upon my cheeks with my fathers eyes to mine would meet.

Oh well that’s not to be I new before I crossed the sea for emerald fields my destiny.

So looking in I grin to see the state its in but even then

the floor not wood nor more but flattened earth where half drunk cups of tea would be

thrown sideways it kept the dust at bay you see, done like the my mother fed the hens with golden grain.

I am reminded of the meat hook above the scullery table and from the same I came

Maybe a half side of beef cut cured of red when needed, enough to suit with crusted bread.

So here I stand with case in hand hot off the train and weary in the heat of day

even though I walked one mile no more the way to here “a Yank” the local folks would say.

But we both know and I that old stone row beside the gate we both relate

where once I sat at play while on the bra the barley waved away at me

in rolling swaths like the Irish sea as it tumbles in at Orlock bay now the poets stay.

And laid out behind the cottage wall not moved for I’m sure 30 years.

Our Massy left to rot, just where he last stopped and sat home from cutting hay a boy back then

I was and now today returns they say “A man of Manhattans way”.

And I guess I could agree and say that shelf where my father’s hat would stay

“That right it’s just the way I’d say” but who would have thought

Or cared? That such a place as this or people would become

With drum and hiss on laden ships to this or how we came to exist like this it was hard to miss.

We came took homes without delay determined we would stay and make our way

the Hudson’s cold Septembers wind and crisp morning air in Golden days.

Remind me when the feeling comes of home I’m not alone while standing on the bridge I look at Liberty

And in my head the voices of my parents say “your not along of here we are akin its just the same to day”

That was the start when New York’s streets were paved and building taller raised, the rest we sowed away.

Copyright © 2009

All rights reserved by Colin T Mercer