Mullaghmore Weather 146

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Marty Byrne

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When you see the grassy sand dunes
You know you're nearly there
That echo of childhood excitement
The burrows filling up with hares

At the bungalow, our voices clattering 
Nanny exasperated, would shout 
"Get to Hell's flying gates! 
And don't yous be hobnobbing in this house!" 

Mischief was atop of the list  
Many an Easter and Summer here
We'd kick around all the arcades 
Befriend a few locals if any came near

Pool in the Beach Hotel 
Smoking cigarettes by the harbour bogs
Truth or dare in the big sandy ditch
That crisp evening snap of burning logs

Ghost stories in the caravans
That shit scared walk home in pitch black
Nowadays you'd have the pints instead
In the Pier Head, sitting down the back

That coastal walk a whole world of beauty
Wild rocks below the grassy holes
Brutal and unforgiving expanse 
Quiets the most unsettled soul  

Down by the pier  
It's always grey and windy here
This time of year 
Or any other

The convent bell and rattlin' boats
Turbulent sea and heavy coats
I always think of Mullaghmore 
In this sort of weather

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