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Poetry - The Dance
The Dance
by Bernard Joseph Byrne
© 1988
On the road to Meenamarach in the twilight long ago,
Past little lime-washed cabins with Tilley lamps aglow,
A dog on Oileán Treorach baying at the moon,
And someone playing a hornpipe, on a fiddle out of tune.
A sobbing little South wind with raindrops in it’s eyes,
Mountain pools reflecting the sparkle of the skies,
Little brooks a purling, jubilant in their glee,
Heedless of the hazards between them and the sea.
Coming home through Meenamarach, weary from the dance,
Darkness and the dawning, and a townland in a trance,
But I was lithe and agile then with blithe and youthful stride,
Who cared for day or darkness with a sweet-heart by his side.
To go by Meenmarach tonight would cause me pain,
For the cabins and the Tilley lamps will never be again.
A dog on Oileán Treorach may serenade the moon,
But the hornpipe is over, and its me who’s out of tune.
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