Podcast by mrjonmoore
"Monologue and soundscape."
Monaro droughted me.
Brown, sharp, rubbed down acute angles.
Frost dazzled, frosted kills.
Edge worn granite, iconic valley.
Ancient wildness, glacier free,
Eons eroded, plough ripped soil
Soil quicksilvered to the sea.
Sheeped pastures trodden down.
Terrestrial dragons and psychic daemons
Touching and calling
Dreamings and knowledge
Triquetra and books.
Blackberry songlines weave the paddocks.
Vixen wanders across the just cut silage.
In the rear, at the cottage of the dairy, the older man cuts his firewood.
His older brother feeds apple halves to calves and heifers.
I walk the songlines, feeding on them.
The softness of soil enveloping my boots.
Touching, caressing through the rubber.
The softness, the verdant lush.
Language rolls, understanding flows.
A deep stirring awakens.
The soil caresses, the soil cleanses,
Light showers, not real rain, locals distraught, “bloody rain”.
50 miles from the Avenue of the O’Connors
Kingdom blood lines,
And Carrauntoohil sits
Fulcrum of the ring.
Ripped untimely from that soil of my maternal line.
“I want to go home.”
Paddock walking, blackberry eating, raw milk drinking.
Soil softness grows
Facetimed children: coming back.
Sister enquiries: You ok?
I will be but
Carrauntoohil sits, fulcrum of my life
Rest, travel, rest, write,
Sleep, sleep each night disturbed
Fulcrum of my dreams
Dream after dream
At each step to Van Diemen's Land
Dreams still dreamed
Sleep more restful
Gut turned, visceral, ancient,
Calling, quietly calling,
From the heart of the Ring,
A part of me stayed
The part my maternal line left
Soaked in melancholy
I mourn for a home part lived
A home half grasped
Making bread and you should!
20. Skibbereen Soundscape
A walk through Skibbereen, West Cork.