Koffee Korner Kafé

 

Rows of Midleton houses seem to sail in

the crisp, Irish air with branches of hundred-

year-old trees, bared for winter cold, age-

weighted, meandering on narrow byways.

 

A visual clash with wide, smooth empty ring

roads following estuarine edges through emerald

fields. All-look-the-same modern housing estates

appear to grow on pristine hills near Blackrock.

 

Industry crowds Cork city with port wharf cranes

erect and container ready.  Jack Lynch tunnel

disappears under water, coastal traders cruise

above near Little Isle.  Stone uprights guide us

 

border ancient footfall ways, animal-hoof routes.

Single car-lanes don’t allow for herds of sheep

and cows or looming tractors. Cross-river

ferries waltz with Titanic cruise-ships. Nudging

 

tenders control the dance on the River Lee. 

Dungarvan town sleeps in school-time. King

John’s Castle, ancient bridge and four-storey

moderns overlook calm Brickey’s tidal flow.

 

We trod the cobblestones, leaning forward

in the breeze, audibly aware of intoned

melodies caught in doorways and cars.

The courteous cruise with windows down

 

in the warmth. Walking Market Square, coats

closed, feeling echoes of town centre Seventeen

Hundred.  Butter market, slick with Council men

and Spirited characters in United Irishmen Power. 

 

Feeling occupation, execution, all history

held in a narrow staircase, an oft-painted

hidden door to the second floor, leading to

The Koffee Korner Kafé.  It’s the tenth of

 

the tenth in two thousand and two - a six day. 

We sit in this cozy space, no bigger than

someone’s lounge or front room. Perched high

on a kitchen chair, we’ve just ordered coffee

 

and home-made cottage pie from Mary. I feel

Ireland.  Feel the frustration of a language lost

or beaten away in fear and disgust.  The despair

of those who take pride in their mother tongue

 

now taught to young but only spoken at home

not in public where judgement rules – except

here. My untutored ear hears the Viking, sees

the sail of his ship, hears the memory, lilting

 

of liquid walls, breaking in rhythm, strange

but still familiar in tone and melody. Often

almost indistinguishable to the foreign ear,

I celebrate the heavy brogue – the sound of

 

Eire today. We swallow the sweet warmth

and wait with the town, bracing itself for uniforms

on the loud hunt for Sherbert treats in exchange

for brain labour. A no-worries future. No famine

 

here. Youth with fresh focus and knowing

eyes on EU opportunities. Techi-haven Ireland

spawns aggressive enterprise, ripe and tiger

eager to take advantage in the ‘Now’.

 

Overseas interests, brash pharmaceutical

relationship phallus-fixers, expel puffs

of bottom-line money into grateful small

country coffers. This tax-advantage gateway

 

to Europe ‘so t‘is’, set up, employ, fills the cup

of industry in her village halls. While new car

license plates display everyman riches since

the century turned.  The Little Green Man gaily

 

lurches from one wealthy franchise to the next,

celebrating independence - Gaelic road-names.

I lean closer, strain my ears - listen with pride;

and relish the sounds of the language of here.

 

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003