saddle.
But there was a problem: how to get her to the island and where to ride her once she got there. She could swim, of course. I remembered the Sable Island ponies swimming a far greater distance. But no man could touch them, and they ran for centuries in their wrath and solitude for such an abandonment. And this mare would arrive furious and terrified and would never trust the mistress who led her there. Once on the island, there was not one level area fit for the schooling of a green horse. The cows trod the rocks on their cloven hooves. One mile by one mile. I knew the mare would splinter her hooves on the flinty lane.
â No, Malachy, I guess Iâd better not have her.
My calves were growing too large to keep by the house; you could not open a door without them barging head-long into the kitchen, upsetting the churn and the teacups.
â Iâll move âem so to the far field.
They showed the whites of their eyes as they left. Horseless, childless and now without cattle, I was a sorry excuse for an islandwoman.
The colour of those weeks was grey. Grey as far as you could see or feel. I remembered a joke Iâd heard in Canada: Baffin Island wanted its independence from the provinces and territories, and its flag would be a polar bear standing against a snowdrift. White on white. I bought a colour box to make paintings of Inishbream. I kept mixing black with white to make grey. Never used the crimson or the aquamarine. Never used purple or the spring green. Grey on grey. Those were my paintings.
The bright moments do not sound bright in a truthful accounting. The sea thrift, when picked, lost its shell-pink flowers, and you could not expect a jug of them to last more than an afternoon. But they had their quick splendour, gracing the table in a handleless blue-willow cup. And if I lay stomach-down in the meadow by my house, I could see a brilliance of wild cowslips that lost their sun underneath the tall dullish grass. Oh, and I tell you, there were brief, shuddering, brilliant marriages under the quilt, accompanied by the static poem of the night.
Here is the sea area forecast. Meteorological situation at 21 hours: a moist westerly airflow covers Ireland. A frontal trough lies over the north of the country . . .
And the husbandâs stuttering hands.
. . . all Irish coastal waters and Irish sea. Wind: west or southwest force 3 or 4, backing southwest to south force 3 to 5 tomorrow.
There was the intimacy of the announcerâs voice in the dark room, recognizing the correspondence of bodies fronting and backing and the holiness of fingers laced or woven into hair.
Visibility: 1 to 3 miles in rain or drizzle. Less than 400 yards in fog. Otherwise over 10 miles. Further outlook . . .
The part I waited for like an oracleâs prediction.
. . . light to moderate south or southwest winds. Occasional rain showers, especially in the west.
And then there was the chant of reports from coastal stations, the litany for boats and men.
Malin Head: southwest, 10 kts, drizzle, 6 mls, 1016 mbs, rising slowly. Valentia: south, 10 kts, cloudy, 11 mls, 1018 mbs, steady. Belmullet: south, 9 kts, recent drizzle, 11 mls, 1016 mbs, steady.
Yes, especially in the west, Valentia, Belmullet, our own Slyne Head. You could look on any atlas precipitation chart, and according to the legend, the fraction of paper that was the Connemara coast would be the wettest in all Ireland. The chart colour for rainfall was green. And I remembered the first day greening on the island of my home, the deep growth of salal and bright-berried kinni-kinnick, the ferns. The patron saint of all life was green-fingered, the rising sea wrack shot with green light, and I saw the rabbits of Eyrephort stricken with myxomatosis that summer, dying a green young death.
REMEMBERING WINTER
I REMEMBER FIELDS OF STONE and a harrowing, men dragging chains behind them, a burden on their backs. Earth separated itself from stones, silting through
But there was a problem: how to get her to the island and where to ride her once she got there. She could swim, of course. I remembered the Sable Island ponies swimming a far greater distance. But no man could touch them, and they ran for centuries in their wrath and solitude for such an abandonment. And this mare would arrive furious and terrified and would never trust the mistress who led her there. Once on the island, there was not one level area fit for the schooling of a green horse. The cows trod the rocks on their cloven hooves. One mile by one mile. I knew the mare would splinter her hooves on the flinty lane.
â No, Malachy, I guess Iâd better not have her.
My calves were growing too large to keep by the house; you could not open a door without them barging head-long into the kitchen, upsetting the churn and the teacups.
â Iâll move âem so to the far field.
They showed the whites of their eyes as they left. Horseless, childless and now without cattle, I was a sorry excuse for an islandwoman.
The colour of those weeks was grey. Grey as far as you could see or feel. I remembered a joke Iâd heard in Canada: Baffin Island wanted its independence from the provinces and territories, and its flag would be a polar bear standing against a snowdrift. White on white. I bought a colour box to make paintings of Inishbream. I kept mixing black with white to make grey. Never used the crimson or the aquamarine. Never used purple or the spring green. Grey on grey. Those were my paintings.
The bright moments do not sound bright in a truthful accounting. The sea thrift, when picked, lost its shell-pink flowers, and you could not expect a jug of them to last more than an afternoon. But they had their quick splendour, gracing the table in a handleless blue-willow cup. And if I lay stomach-down in the meadow by my house, I could see a brilliance of wild cowslips that lost their sun underneath the tall dullish grass. Oh, and I tell you, there were brief, shuddering, brilliant marriages under the quilt, accompanied by the static poem of the night.
Here is the sea area forecast. Meteorological situation at 21 hours: a moist westerly airflow covers Ireland. A frontal trough lies over the north of the country . . .
And the husbandâs stuttering hands.
. . . all Irish coastal waters and Irish sea. Wind: west or southwest force 3 or 4, backing southwest to south force 3 to 5 tomorrow.
There was the intimacy of the announcerâs voice in the dark room, recognizing the correspondence of bodies fronting and backing and the holiness of fingers laced or woven into hair.
Visibility: 1 to 3 miles in rain or drizzle. Less than 400 yards in fog. Otherwise over 10 miles. Further outlook . . .
The part I waited for like an oracleâs prediction.
. . . light to moderate south or southwest winds. Occasional rain showers, especially in the west.
And then there was the chant of reports from coastal stations, the litany for boats and men.
Malin Head: southwest, 10 kts, drizzle, 6 mls, 1016 mbs, rising slowly. Valentia: south, 10 kts, cloudy, 11 mls, 1018 mbs, steady. Belmullet: south, 9 kts, recent drizzle, 11 mls, 1016 mbs, steady.
Yes, especially in the west, Valentia, Belmullet, our own Slyne Head. You could look on any atlas precipitation chart, and according to the legend, the fraction of paper that was the Connemara coast would be the wettest in all Ireland. The chart colour for rainfall was green. And I remembered the first day greening on the island of my home, the deep growth of salal and bright-berried kinni-kinnick, the ferns. The patron saint of all life was green-fingered, the rising sea wrack shot with green light, and I saw the rabbits of Eyrephort stricken with myxomatosis that summer, dying a green young death.
REMEMBERING WINTER
I REMEMBER FIELDS OF STONE and a harrowing, men dragging chains behind them, a burden on their backs. Earth separated itself from stones, silting through
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