Canal Harbour Ramble; The Horse; and Throw Back
Brendan Martin
Canal Harbour Ramble
Today I met old Mick,
in the company of two collies.
His barely grunted greeting,
through the pipe between his lips,
sounded like commands
for dogs to sit and listen.
I tried to make conversation,
but he was already moving
as his two trained dogs
ignored the shape of my existence.
The barges sat still,
near Harbour Street Bridge,
as I passed along the towpath
towards Paradise,
in through the skinny swing gate,
big enough for one,
to crunch steps towards the cathedral,
leaving Mick behind,
struggling,
to get smoke from the pipe.
The Horse
Through Ginnell, front and back, they dragged the milk and coal;
delivering with stops and starts, the reins were in control.
Up the hill, and down the hill on rainy days or fine,
they never hurried, always walked, based on clip-clop time.
We watched these awesome animals, appearing as gentle as could be,
and if we got the nod, we could pat them down for free.
Once I thought I’d lose a hand as the horse chomped on the bit;
he tossed his head and shook his mane, and I thought, that was it.
But he snorted then, sounding bored, as two men took coal in sacks,
and brought them to a nearby house, transported on their backs.
The cart was getting lighter, and the horse rearranged its feet;
three straight legs and one at rest, kept things steady on the street.
The men would “hup” and he would goad clip or clop, or two or more,
and move another little bit outside the house next door.
Other children joined us there, to watch the circus of the horse and cart.
How we laughed and ran about, but the horse would never start.
“Hup” we’d shout, but it stood still, we couldn’t make it go;
and when it seemed uneasy, one of the men would tell it “whoa”.
It would “whoa” and “hup” for these men only, but never for us noisy bunch;
and one day we were allowed on the cart, as the men were eating lunch.
We were happy playing on the street, at some long forgotten game,
and in all those years, I never asked, nor knew the horse’s name.
Throw Back
Oh why won’t the fish come to me?
as an angler that is my plan;
they seem to just leave me be,
sang a lonely old fisherman.
There he sat on his little row boat,
out on the edge of Lough Owel;
a melody stuck deep in his throat
about how he felt like a fool.
Suddenly, his line was tensioned and taut,
as tight as a string on his guitar;
and he hauled in the first fish, that he ever caught,
then smiled, and said Aha! There you are!
The fish seemed to try to reply,
moving his mouth, tail and fin;
The fisherman said, thank you, for your self-sacrifice,
as he freed it, and threw it back in.
Brendan Martin is a member of Inklings Writing Group, who meet on Tuesdays at 11am and Wednesdays at 7.30pm in the Annebrook House Hotel. Mullingar. Aspiring and fun writers welcome.