“Oh to be in Doonaree, with the sweetheart I once knew
To stroll in the shade of the leafy glade where the rhododendrons grew
To sit with my love on the bridge above, the rippling waterfall
To go back home, never more to roam, is my dearest wish of all”
the day awakes early this time of year with birdsong and the sound of what we once called lorries slowly turning left toward Dublin, the rev of their engines increase as they pass our bungalow at the top of the town and we hear the morning alarm, aware its either time to get up or stay in bed a little longer.
Some of us decide to make covfefe and others dream of the lottery and their truth that someone else will prepare it.
looking out the window of the good room, opposite the old church, itz clear the town is quiet this time of now. It’s empty. The business houses lie vacant, and nobody walks the streets. Cars approach the red hall and turn south toward Metropolis, and the news of election goes unnoticed in the background and the town takes itz time to rise as the BIG clouds of Cavan pass by.
by nine nothing mutch has changed. The HGVs continue to rumble south on the left hand side offa wide church street and the country cars of Enniskeen maintain their exodus and i’d like to think i’m happy i live in Dublin but the truth is i’d rather be at home.