“A writer is not interested in explaining reality. He’s
only interested in capturing it.”
Inside my father's bones lie a million secrets.
Secrets passed down the long chain from the
beginning of time and the vastness of space.
In the glorious mix of diversity, endlessly
coursing through the shrouded mists of the
Holy Island, he breathes still. The memories
of his people, absorbed by the stones and the
very earth herself, exhale all that ever was.
Their essence still permeates, insisting that it
be never forgotten.
From Cessair, through Fomorian,
Nemedian, Fir Bolg, Tuatha, Milesian,
Celt and Viking, I inhaled that cocktail of life
with eager lungs and magnificent surprise.
I am inside my father's bones and my father
is inside mine.
He is the beggar-man, the holy man, the master
and the freeman. He still walks the fields, sure of foot.
He still wades the stream, fearless. He still lures the
trout, with quiet assuredness.
He still charms the goldfinch from her tree-top
perch, ever gently.
His bones sing loud enough for me to hear
even in the darkest, deepest reaches of the
night. On a quiet evening I still hear his melodic
whistle floating on the air, calling to me.
Yes, I am inside my father’s
bones, and he is inside mine.