A School Full of Hay, and: Cocking Hay
Rent from DeepDyve- A School Full of Hay, and: Cocking Hay
A School Full of Hay
It was built in 1855As a National School,At the brow of the wildHillside of Knockbackgeldon,Shaped like a gelding's back.Built of the finest cut limestone,Drawn there by horse and cart,With grants from the CommissionersOf Education in Dublin and landlord,The Earl of Bessborough.
Generations of children playedBetween the granite rocks andFerns until it closed down for goodIn the 1960s. By then it had justOne teacher and sixteen pupils.
Sometime in the 1970s, theFarmer with land beside itBought it from the parish forLittle or nothing. A burden gone. [End Page 148]
Passing in the car in the 1980s,Bales of hay look out the windows:
"There is nothing between yourears, you dunce, only straw."
No one to hear it now, in aSchool full of hay.
Cocking Hay
for Geoff
Eight years and two monthsI was shown how to turn aSward, imitating the movementsOf your fork, working onThe inside rank to mine.
Nine years and two months,July 1971, I progressed in myApprenticeship to making smallCocks, not yet qualified to attemptThe skyscraper trams you madeWith fluent, absentEase along the headlands,I kept to my designated areaIn the middle, lighter ranks.
Cocking the Oval field, soNamed after a chunkWas sectioned off to accommodateLandlord Lord Bessborough'sMountain Grove deciduous wood. [End Page 149]
I was glad of the shadeOn a blisteringLeinster Final Sunday
The red Philips transistorEnsconced in a cock,Michael O'Hehir's commentary reechoingThrough sycamore and oak canopies.
"Hit it ya ejeet,""Point it Kerr," shoutedYou as if you wereOn the side line at Croke Park,Firming the cap of a cock.
We worked in symphonyUntil the field was cockedAnd Kilkenny had won. In theAll-Ireland against Tipp.I didn't care, stood toAdmire my creations in hay,Perfect, even egg-caps.
The week after they wereLifted onto a buck rake,Heeled into the shed andSpread in a uniform brackOf hay for winter fodder.
In a fortnight the field wasGreen again like its neighbours,The cattle ate it bare andIt re-grew again, was never aMeadow againExcept in the loftI carry shoulder high. [End Page 150]
Mary O'Shea has published poems in Poetry Ireland Review, The Salmon, Cathach, and elsewhere. She is the author of three books and the recipient of the Clonmel Writer's Week Poetry Prize and the Allingham Prize.
