Sailing to Byzantium by William Butler Yeats

That is no country for old men. The young

In one another's arms, birds in the trees,

—Those dying generations—at their song,

The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,

Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long

Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.

Caught in that sensual music all neglect

Monuments of unageing intellect. 

A New Day Dawns

We set off one morning at 4 am and climbed 1500 steps in darkness, Orion's belt high in the sky.

We could have touched it. We could see the Great Bear. The sky sparkled a million diamonds.

The darkness laid down its head and a new day came to greet us. For all, our last day on the Great Wall.

Mao Zedong (Chairman Mao) said
" bu dao Chang Cheng fei hao han "
          不到长城非好汉
(whoever doesn't reach the Great Wall is not a real man)

In the mighty valleys and hills of Simatai, that morning, we had just become men.

Live O Derry Boy

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a childhood in pictures and poems

Excerpt from the Boy Who kissed Lamposts

Martin's spoon traced the figures of ancient China etched in the landscape of the blue willow plate of breakfast cereal.   A thought scurried across his mind. ‘One day I will go there’.

He paused for a moment, to catch the morning sunlight filtering through the laced curtain and turned to his aunt standing by the stove.

' Auntie , please, please  may I leave the table?' 

An approving wink set him free.    

And I Awake

The burn would run all night and morning

Gurgling seductively outside my bedroom window

Golden brown and bubbling over the peat-moss moor

Sounds of scratching fowls and swishing cows

Cud-chewing to the milking parlour

Narrative - excerpt from 'The boy at the Window'

We sat on Sundays,  high up by  the roots of the knobbled beech tree, careful not to get our Sunday best worse.   The castle hung in the distance, anchored by pristine lawns that glistened in the early morning  sun. That held the castle a distant nirvana.  Untouchable,unreachable.  Shuttered blinds that guarded the Major’s privacy.

We were more interested in what went on below.  The Moyola , it's honey browned waters burbling blindly over the weir, fattened by the rains of late Autumn.   Gorged on leaves from falling foliage, the swirl and foam all working together at the edge of the weir.

It's razor sharp edge awaiting.   We watched with all the uneasiness of Sunday,s service children mumbling  prayers and humming hymns.  Restless on uncomfortable bums.