The Curious Trinkets of Nelius Flynn

                               

                   Half Moon Bay, Hazelwood, Sligo                      

                    

     I was driving along the winding road to the framer. 

It was at the turning of the year, not quite evening but getting atmospheric as the darkness was starting to settle over Armagh fields.

Quiet.

There was flooding and some tractor tracks in nearby fields were filled with water and reflected the sky. 

I am tuned in to trees, their black lines, trunks and branches in inky black. In the folder beside me is my completed pen drawing, in the style of Fumio Yamaguchi or some other Japanese print-maker. 

Its imperfections are what make it perfect to me.

I am happy.

A field of stubble reminds me of my visits to the off-shore islands of Ireland that I have visited.

On that fine first day on Rathlin Island I walked among long dappled grasses. 

I may even pluck the silver apples of the Moon and perhaps the golden apples of the Sun some time.

I, am not too old from wandering through hollow lands and the stony gray hills of Monaghan.

I pull into the framer's drive and the West Highland White Terrier walks towards me, as always.

I have been to Hazelwood many times and I have walked the sculpture trail near Half Moon Bay.

 

Half Moon Bay.

 

Sun days stealing golden red apples from the twisted trees at Lissadell in Autumn. 

Laughter and pride as my mother looks up at us,

Eternally.

William Butler Yeats had a fleeting mystical experience there near Half Moon Bay on the shore of Lough Gill.

A vision of a glimmering girl with apple blossom in her hair who called out his name. "William". 

And disappeared.

It is that type of place. 

The Song of Wandering Aengus

by

W.B.Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And someone called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done,

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

 

My own experience by the shore there was far less descriptive but still clearly memorable to this day.

All around me everything glowed with an intense bright light.

Something like the lighting in an El Greco religious oil painting.

Shielding my eyes with my hands, I felt elation, maybe even rapture.

It was ethereal and passed in an instant.

The brief counter-emotion, of two weeks filled with ugly grief.

A turning point in that year.

A sign of a brighter future.

 

Maybe.

 

Mary just booked a trip for us to Washington DC in March.

 

Just now, as I finished writing that last  piece she said her brother Danny had just messaged her to say

that The Cherry Blossom Festival will take place the week we are there.

 

My glimmering girl..... with cherry blossom in her hair. 

 

Washington DC 2024