Holidays.

 Summer Holidays 

Summer holidays when the rain

Came rolling in from the ocean

The familiar sweet smell of damp

That lived with us for days on end. 

Walking into the mist 

That cooled our face

That warmed our spirit

On a Sligo afternoon. 

Fierce Strandhill waves

Like mountains crashing

On a beach being stripped

Of sand with pebbles in exchange. 

The fine spray above Glencar

Whose torrent rushes into the stream

That feeds the Drumcliffe river

Beneath Ben Bulben’s shadow. 

Taking shelter from the rain

In the shop in Castle Street 

McDonaghs Dairy with the smell

Of tea and milk and butter. 

Ever patient Uncle Packie

Behind the counter with a smile

For every person and a discreet hand

For Sligo’s poor still dressed in black. 

Times that passed but not forgotten

Come rolling back like summer mists

Just as gently wash the soul

With whispers of eternity.