Binnion Hill Poem by bryan wallace

My small feet sink into peaty soil,
The purple heather polishes our boots as we walk,
Cocksfoot grass seed and burrs stick to our clothes.
The glorious golden sea of yellow whin bushes
March endless with our gaze -
Into the glorious sunshine of a June evening,
Scratching our arms as we force past.
Each footfall disturbing swarms of biting midgets,
Hanging in the air - this plague of an Irish peat bog.

'Wait a wee minute' puffs the old man behind me.
I stop and look back -
My Granda, stopped to get his breath back.
This eight year old wean stamps around impatiently -
Not old enough to understand old age's limitations.
This age-weary old man struggles for breath,
Wheezing accompanied each laboured breath,
Whistling through pursed lips into agéd lungs.

Never once did I hear him complain though.
He was still prepared to take the time
To point out everything we seen of interest.
Identifying flowers, birds and insects,
Pointing out where he used to cut the turf,
Or to where he carried hundredweight bags of corn
And bales of hay - all on his back -
To feed cattle in wintertime -
A meagre living and a family to feed
Scraped out from a few bare acres of Donegal hillside.

With a penknife he helped me carve my name
On a large block of slate that sat on the hedgerow -
Where he had carved his own name as a boy,
As had my cousins, aunts and uncles,
And other visitors, many long since dead.
When we reach our destination on top of the hill,
Looking out across the Foyle over St. Johnston.
The place-names, townlands, folklore and fairy stories - all -
Recited off the tip of his tongue.
I wish I could remember even the half of it.

With typical good timing, we're back in time for tea.
Granda now exhausted - sits and dozes
In front of an open book at the kitchen table.
My granny's been busy while we were away -
Home made wheaten scones and raspberry jam -
A gourmet delight to a growing boy.

A gravelled roadway now replaces the overgrown footpath.
It's easier now - no fighting through whins and heather -
But the magic and sense of adventure has been lost.
New houses and windfarms blot the landscape.
All those tales of fairies, ghosts and ghouls -
Now superstitious nonsense to the educated mind,
But perhaps we've lost our sense of fun and make-believe?
The 17th Century thatched cottage - full of memories -
Now an empty shell.
Life changes - people give up their earthly struggles.
Buildings get old and tired too.
Perhaps some day, I'll be that breathless old man -
Passing on my own education from life's university.