In Utero to Dún Aenghasa

An unpublished poem

Namu and Arún two years apart at Dún Aenghasa, Inis Mór

In utero to Dún Aonghasa

I had a dream as Gaeilge
in Ennistymon at the Falls Hotel.
My face glowing from inis mór that day.
And it was no wonder, for me and my love
made landfall and the language was there
to meet us, hand outstretched. It was the first
time, my son, I felt your presence. You curled
like a fiddle head in your mother, swelling
her ankles while she lifted you in utero
to Dún Aonghusa.

We were dropped at the foot
of that hill by a rattling mini bus
driven by a newly retired sailor
who captained the island's rescue
boat for 21 years. His last voyage
collected a woman from the bottom
of the cliffs of Moher. She stepped
off that cliff at two thirty, was hauled
onto his boat an hour later.

‘She had one child… I’d rather that had not
been my last call, but it was…’ he said.

And now, I massage the feet
of the woman who holds
my first to be born. Squeezing
her soles so tight my thumbs ache.
‘You can press harder’ she says.
I look up and say, ‘I can’t’.