Ireland

The author dedicates this poem to Máire Mhac a’ tSaoi.

‘Cuirfidh sé brí ionat agus beatha,’
arsa sean-Bhríd, faghairt ina súile
ag tabhairt babhla fíoruisce chugam
as an tobar is glaine i nGleann an Átha.
Tobar a coinníodh go slachtmhar
ó ghlúin go glúin, oidhreacht
luachmhar an teaghlaigh
cuachta istigh i gclúid foscaidh,
claí cosanta ina thimpeall
leac chumhdaigh ar a bhéal.

Agus mé ag teacht i méadaíocht
anseo i dtús na seascaidí
ní raibh teach sa chomharsanacht
gan a mhacasamhail de thobar,
óir cúis mhaíte ag achan duine
an t-am adaí a fholláine is a fhionnuaire
a choinníodh sé tobar a mhuintire:
ní ligfí sceo air ná smál
is dá mbeadh rian na ruamheirge
le feiceáil ann, le buicéad stáin
dhéanfaí é a thaoscadh ar an bhall
is gach ráithe lena choinneáil folláin
chumhraítí é le haol áithe.

Uisce beo bíogúil, fíoruisce glé
a d’fhoinsigh i dtobar ár dteaghlaigh.
I gcannaí agus i gcrúiscíní
thóg siad é lá i ndiaidh lae
agus nuair a bhíodh íota tarta orthu
i mbrothall an tsamhraidh
thugadh fliuchadh agus fuarú daofa
i bpáirceanna agus i bportaigh.
Deoch íce a bhí ann fosta
a chuir ag preabadaigh iad le haoibhneas
agus mar uisce ionnalta
d’fhreastail ar a gcás ó bhreith go bás.

Ach le fada tá uisce reatha
ag fiaradh chugainn isteach
ó chnoic i bhfad uainn
is i ngach cisteanach
ar dhá thaobh an ghleanna
scairdeann uisce as sconna
uisce lom gan loinnir
a bhfuil blas searbh súlaigh air
is i measc mo dhaoine
tá tobar an fhíoruisce ag dul i ndíchuimhne.

‘Is doiligh tobar a aimsiú faoi láthair,’
arsa Bríd, ag líonadh an bhabhla athuair.
‘Tá siad folaithe i bhfeagacha agus i bhféar,
tachtaithe ag caileannógach agus cuiscreach,
ach in ainneoin na neamhairde go léir
níor chaill siad a dhath den tseanmhianach.
Aimsigh do thobar féin, a chroí,
óir tá am an anáis romhainn amach:
Caithfear pilleadh arís ar na foinsí.’

The Well
translated by Gabriel Fitzmaurice (original text above).
”Twill put a stir in you, and life,’
says old Bridget, spark in her eyes
profferring a bowl of spring-water
from the purest well in Gleann an Átha,
a well that was tended tastily
from generation to generation, the precious
heritage of the household
snugly sheltered in a nook,
a ditch around it for protection,
a flagstone on its mouth.

When I was growing up
here in the early sixties
there wasn’t a house in the neighbourhood
without its like,
for everyone was proud then
of how wholesome and pure
they kept the family well:
they wouldn’t let it become murky or slimy
and at the first traces of red-rust
it was bailed-out with a tin bucket
then purified every season with kiln-lime.

Lively, living water, pellucid spring-water
gushed forth from our family well.
In tin-cans and pitchers
they drew it daily
and in the devouring thirst
of sweltering summer
it slaked and cooled them
in field and bog.
It was a tonic, too,
that made them throb with delight
and for their ablutions
it served from cradle to grave.

But, this long time,
piped water from distant hills
sneaks into every kitchen
on both sides of the glen;
water spurts from a tap,
mawkish, without sparkle,
zestless as slops
and among my people
the springwell is being forgotten.

”Tis hard to find a well nowdays’,
says Bridget filling the bowl again.
‘They’re hidden in rushes and grass,
choked by green scum and ferns,
but, despite the neglect,
they’ve lost none of their true mettle.
Seek out your own well, my dear,
for the age of want is near:
There will have to be a going back to sources.’

(Cathal Ó Searcaigh)