The Spaniard Inn

Dawn's breeze pianos spring leaves and gently plays
all those trees around my home. Those crows
congregate in our churchyard each day.
A southwest wind hoots that ghostly fog
hom of the Old Head of Kinsale. My dog,
Gameball, wags in his bark to wake my day.
Glad voices of children's play at school
bell my hour. I exit, glad dog to heel.
We laze the Low Road. Open sea portside.
I watch for that-chance salmon's jump. Wood heights
to starboard. I pursue my greening thoughts
in their shade, an exile from exile alongside.

Pause at The Seat to swap chat with old seamen
stare lost between our harbour and horizon.

All Scilly ways and byways lead us straight
face to The Spaniard anchorage day or night.
Sailors have stood at this bar for centuries.
Robinson Crusoe began his voyage from here
where I dropped anchor after my voyage elsewhere.

Retired seamen, ashore for their last years,
salute my come on board, remark the weather.
Then for our day's forecast wisely refer
to telltale spiders' webs. We drink, then break
the bread of life leavened by common talk.
Our brief the local paper's headlines. We balk
at none. With ease we right each grave mistake
of State, in Sport, the outside world made last night
and, glass for glass, stand all downfalls upright.

That man and his three brothers torpedoed
the same day in the War. All four survived.
This one adrift alone for weeks, same War.
The postman daily walks his thirty miles
round here before they got those postwar bicycles.
That man's glass eye, a poke out by his ship's spar.
And so on for generations past.

Some historic pictures hang nailed fast
to these old walls. The Luisitania, sunk
off The Old Head, contrasts with the bad luck
of Captain Smith on his bridge, the Titanic
my mother would not sail on.
Her Limerick best friend Molly Dwyer did. She survived.
Then I was born. History's what's retrieved.

It took me forty years of world wander
before I shipped in here and dropped anchor.
Some voice amid life whispers where to scuttle.
My wanderlust lies diydocked here forever.
Memory's my seachart now, this pub home harbour---
where old and young sailors enjoy their gargle.

Our youths return with news of foreign places.
We hear them with unmoved, reflective faces.
We've been there, seen all, (lone that but don't tell
what we got up to then when we were young.
The talc's the same for all of youth's far flung
flight. Don't foul your homeport still holds our rule.
That old sailor told me what an older
one told him. Once home the world shrinks closer.

We tell the hour of day, day of the week.
by our each move: Who shows up first to sneak
his pint of breakfast and cheek off the day's
racehorses in the morning newspaper
who's dodged down Breakheart Hill to shop before
he'll drink the money here if he delays;
who's bailed out or painted up their boats
while waiting. Who's pulled all his lobster pots
and earned his day; our breadman with town news;
just now the Bike pushed past the window,
never enters. Another round. It's now
the hour that old seadog drinks up and leaves.
No local women weekdays. After Mass
on Sundays, with their husbands, some show face.

We each must have a place to sit our perch
where we may live our separate selves, or worse,
a while, daily. There we may lapse with ease
into our local dialect for talk
with friends. This we punctuate with mock
gestures to make a point when we so please.
That's when our dreams, conjured in innocence,
find likeminded dreamers who believe us
in this our public shrine of reverie.

I launched and sailed this boat, my life, as mine
to master. In fair and foul, through dark and shine,
I safely navigated many a sea.

But now, as the poet said in dream to me:
'The devil is tired. The devil a monk shall be.'

Well did everyone enjoy the hedonistic debauchery pleasure that was Marky C Week?!I certainly did!A big thank you to everyone who made it possible and who graciously participated,it was the company had made it the fantastic week it was a summary of the weeks shenanigans;Monday being my actual bday I decided to engage in a spot of can consumption in the house followed by an escapade to Fast Eddies where I proceeded to get in toxicated with my housemates Stephen&Jonathan and my long suffering friend Kevin all three of whom were quite curtious in buying me substainial amounts of Jaegermiester.Tuesday consisted of a few pints in celebration of Ferg's bday followed by cans and the inaugaral viewing of the new Tomy Tiernan dvd at the house.With Wednesday came the banter ridden trip to Limerick.I would like to take this opportunity to thank the Limerick contingent for their gracious hospitality,a splendid night was enjoyed by all I believe!Thursday was to be the climax of celebrations and what a climax it was!Consumption began at two in the bars of UCC followed by a superlious suit house party where the banter was rife.The beer bong was fufiling its duty mainly in the hands of one Ronan Mitchell and soy sauce was shot by Dunny who once again bowed to peer pressure.As usual Kiely te everything available in the house,all and all a pretty standard night!A brief stop at the newly refurbished Jury's hotel for "marktinis" added a distinct air f sophistication to proceedings which was duly quenched by the groups' inseasiable thrist for further alcohal and drunken shenanigans in Fast Eddies.Perhaps when the phots become circulated I'll remember more of what actually happened in Fast Eddies but for now it remains a mystery lost in the aeons of time.The banter didnt stop there though,this morning saw a good degree of morning after frolics which helped ease aching heads and the general feeling of unwellness.Overall a resounding success.