Recollections of an Irish Childhood

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Thoughts from a potato field in rural Ireland (late 1960s)

We ate that day with grubby hands
Silken- floured farls straight from the griddle
The earth our table, the sky our roof

The farmer’s wife rough-red and rude
Poured us liquid from a billy can
Golden tea fired our bellies and strengthened our spines

As we stooped and skimmed and shook the soil from
Those golden nuggets
Raped in the virgin furrow

At close of day we bumped along
Tired on the tail end of the tractor trailer
And broke our bums as we grasped our crumpled, brown, ten-shilling note

And raced home with field laid bare
And not a backward glance
For we were kings for many a day.