Sketching

 

 

I sat myself down on a low stone wall,

a semi-circle that splits St Mary’s Road in two. 

I'm just visiting Midleton, you understand...

But I fancied a go at drawing that house -

number 23 – the smart one covered with ivy.

 

Everyone who passes offers a gentle smile,

a quickly delivered non-committal comment

about the bright, …hasn’t it turned lovely?

surprisingly beautiful - if chilly-wind, day

or, ’tis drawing, is it? Grand – aye. ‘Tis grand.

 

The old man from 21 (yellow door) appears, out

front and exchanges quiet words with a passing

nun. Guidance or query, advice or condemnation?

I have missed you, Pádraig. Sure your face

has not been seen… and she moves on.

 

He takes a few ginger steps up the hill, toward

number 23, (the one I am sketching) glancing at

me measuring with my eye. He appears beside,

Sure, ye’re doing a grand job, I see… Thank you.

So you’re an artisté? No, not really, just having a go…

 

On holiday, are we? Sort of – here with a friend.

Where would ye be from? Perth, Western Australia.

Oh Grand! I‘ve two greyhounds – did ye know that

the best here, are from there? If I want to put him over

my dog, it be 1500 Euros and the compliment, sure t'is

 

You're not drawing my house... t'is a shame that...

Do you think the owners of 23 would mind my sketching?

Course not! They're away in England just now - won't even

know and besides wouldn't be concerned... so don't ye be

worried.  As he wandered away, I said, G'day!

 

The plastic bag I am sitting on doesn’t stop the cold

and I become aware that my bum is now numb, but

the smiling lady has crossed the road in order to talk.

I don’t want to be rude in this most courteous of places

where pedestrians cross without looking, ‘cos they can.

 

The Yield sign, gently underlines the persona,

or my interpretation of Ireland’s people, so far.

It seems that life here, has a soft, pliant rhythm,

flowing effortlessly over the rounded green hills,

settling quietly in the misty, emotional valleys.

 

The traffic ambles steadfastly on its fixed way

pausing only to allow entrance to nuzzling

courtesy – ‘sure, there’s no hurry, now…’ cars.

Businesses pause, people will chat, keeping

themselves amused as they wait for service.

 

The Post Office queues grow longer in patience

‘Well hello there!’ bounces from one end

to the other, necks turning, as if watching tennis.

Spy the newcomer - the welcome additions to

this social gathering for stamps and pensions.

 

Umbrellas quietly dance in the hidden rain, falling

in secrecy – felt only now and then on a nose or hand

but wetting the road like a ghostly downpour unseen,

though presented by low smudges of gray obscuring

the sun trying to highlight the bright insistent colours.

 

Is it cold out? …my partner asks. (You can’t tell unless

you step out there… in the chill wind or take note

of clothing that others put on or leave off.) No, but

I’d bring the umbrella just in case… and a coat you can

always take off or not… in case it’s another soft Irish day.

 

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003

PHOTO:  My drawing mentioned in the poem, serves as the cover of my next book.