Waiting for Nora

Dòmhnall O Súilleabháin

himself, the only one left.

His mother, father and older brother

cut down before their time,

six years since:

the accursed tuberculosis.

He crawled out of it somehow

only to find himself clenched in the talons

of that brutal bitch, grief.

Each year his anguish a foot deeper

and now six years later and six feet down,

He felt at peace.

A bruised heart but not broken,

comfortable with the memories,

able in his toil and strong of spirit.

Strong of spirit he needed to be

hardy, too, as he was

whilst trying to domesticate his excitement.

Another Friday afternoon

and once again found himself

waiting at the crossroads,
his hands deep in his pockets,

leaning against the cold, damp wall,

its blistered stones 
of peeling lichen and dead moss.
ached its way down the back of a bullied hill 
and into the deep crude greys of a winter’s sea.
The crooked and cracked

ridden road it bordered waited too:
potholed and blotched in cow’s muck;
mucilage whinging from the boggish dykes
that cursed along its weather bet shoulders.
A road that bore nowt but poor farmers,
funeral cortèges and the emaciated souls of yore, 
fleeing famine, civil war and foreign butchers.
That was back then, in those days, those winters,
but in the cold arguments of today, 
Dòmhnall’s day, nowt but
a heathenish wind gritted in salt and sleet 
bitching and blustering its way up the ancient hill,
scraping the humours off a few brave but
bungling seagulls battling the blusters 
and a small gathering of forlorn heifers
chewing the cud over a pile of steaming silage.
Dòmhnall, steadfast as ever, 
held tough through the foul pronouncements, 
though suffered as did the birds and beasts,
stood firm like stone walls have stood,

waiting mercies;
out of history, worn but lasting;
cold bones and coarse skin 
numbed into the self, in leaning patience
amongst the scattered fields
of bald drills and tangled ditches
cowled in the grey scowl 
of souring clouds.

As if out of the angry sea itself, the bus snorted
and growled through the dank platitudes
of December’s ire whilst struggling
against the bitter bile of the tormented hill 
and the residue of tribulations 
flowing down the whinging road.
An ageing contraption; stubborn, erratic
and moody. Its mechanics brought into play
with deft authority, determination, and brute force. 
Thaddeus O Brien at the mighty wheel:
a bus driver of rare note, 
(sometime) handyman, widower
and a gifted fiddle player
brought the cantankerous beast

and its two passengers 
to where, Dòmhnall waited, with a grumbling halt
in a ruction of black smoke and growling breaks.
Dòmhnall greeted Thaddeus with a friendly wave
and the bus driver returned in kind 
with an authoritative nod from his leather throne.
He knew Dòmhnall well, a fine fellow, a quiet sort
who minded his own business. 
The bold Thaddeus cranked the leaver hard 
and the doors of the bus swung open 
like the outstretched arms of a moralizing bishop, 
and Nora MacBride carefully and beautifully 
stepped out and into the waiting gospels.
Elegant in a dark blue, knee-length coat
of fine wool with a matching hat
sporting a most delicate spray

of pheasant feathers.
A pair of black leather gloves 
protected her hands from the cold

and a pair of shin high black boots,

practical as they were fashionable

to finish off the ensemble.
Mick Lawler, an old bachelor,

fisherman, traveling home 
after tying up the nets, 
who had gotten to know Nora 
after their many bus journeys together,
helped her down the three steps
handing her, her brown leather weekend case.
“Thank you ever so much, Mick.” Said Nora.
“Not at all, Nora”. Replied Mick,
as he waved to Dòmhnall.
Dòmhnall appreciating the greeting
with a wave back. 

Thaddeus cranked the doors shut,
as if kicking the bishop in the bollocks,
brought the bus into gear
and the begrudging beast into motion again.
“Love is in the air.” Said Mick.
“It surely is,” smiled Thaddeus,

“a warm sight on such a cold day.”

’Twas then that Nora beheld the reason for her journey:
her handsome farmer, gentleman and sweetheart:

Dòmhnall O Súilleabháin,

looking his best 
in his late father’s tweed cap,
tilted, just a tad to starboard, 
a white shirt buttoned to the neck,
a pair of well-worn but well-polished 
brown brogues, in his best Sunday suit,
black of course, frayed at the sleeves,
short in the legs
and his late brother’s overcoat,

after six years fitted him perfectly

and in the breast pocket of his suit

his late mother’s engagement ring.

Thaddeus O Brien
a bus driver of rare note, 
(sometime) handyman, widower
and a gifted fiddle player,

who had for two years

battled all weathers and that accursed hill

to get Nora to her beloved Dòmhnall on time
was taken aback, joyously aback,
when asked to be best man
at their wedding.
“I’d be honoured” he replied,
all teary-eyed as was,
Mick Lawler on receiving his invitation
to the marriage ceremony,
his first invitation to anything.