A Poem about family

Being part of a big family is magical for children. My mum was one of sixteen, so I was always surrounded by cousins. 


Ballysnod

We reach the summit in the inky part of day –
ready to be written – and look beyond lines 
of skinny houses to giant Woodbine 
puffing as the Townsend Thoresen 
scissors the navy sea.

Scarlet-cheeked cousins play inside –
two score and more – and tumble and titter 
and tee-hee by the hearth, where a new baby
is changed and wrapped in a white, 
bobbly blanket.

Granny casts a crafty smile in the corner – 
reflexive conjugation – and the clickety-click 
of stout knitting needles conjures honeycomb 
lines in Aaron wool unwinding above 
a pile of cardigans scented with barley.

Granda’s heavy hands rest on his belly –
past imperious – and he half-snoozes 
with one eye on his lamb sheep huddled 
close to the orange fire, where buckled, 
leather belts hang idle.

Aunts rattle the golden bucket of coal –
eleven in prime – and the hiss of wet slack
unleashes a draught as children eat 
a communion of squished up loaf 
and sip Ribena from silver goblets.
 
In the parlour, uncles talk unseen – 
five lost for a crown – and shake a fist 
at nephews who creep through the hall, sucking 
the scent of Imperial Leather as they
learn what is for men to be at peace.

Joyce’s eyes well in the window pane –
still one of sixteen children – and her cradling
voice follows a gust of wind that catches me 
falling, lace-on-lace, into a bride’s 
arms in infant days of summer.

Later, I step outside into the darkness and hear 
the clickety-click of time unwinding 
and know that they will all come home –
to Ballysnod.


'Ballysnod' was placed 5th in the 8th Annual Bangor Poetry Competition, December 2020. 

Image: Melancholy, Odilon Redon, 1876, Art Institute Chicago.