Gemma Hill Writeyou Writeme

School!

I don’t remember my first day at school

But I’m sure my sister Gertie took me

Holding tight to my hand as our mother

Told her to as we walked from

Ballindrait to Murlog School

 

My husband Fran used to smile

When he told me about his first days

In the small school at the bottom of

The Ballycolman Lane in Strabane I think he said

And Sister Mary McTilll

 

I remember taking each of our three sons to

Their first day at school

Giles left Eileen and Anne’s careful care in pre-school

In Melvin Hall.

He had been there for 2 years because of the way

His birth date fell

Richard had gone to play school too

Under Elizabeth Blee’s tender hand and the team in

St Mary’s School

And then it was our son Ross’s turn to go

He had gone to Ballycolman Nursery

He still recalls his days there with fond memories

 

The youngest of the three

He was the last one to go to school

I remember walking up the Melmount Road

Holding tightly to his hand

I knew it probably was me that was going to

Need comforting as I stood outside the

Classroom clutching my camera

Asking to be let in to take a photo

Of his first day at school

 

And then in no time it seemed it was our grandchildrens’turn

The morning of the first day or that evening after school

They proudly came to show Granny and Granda

Their new school uniforms

And their amazing new schoolbags full of wonderful pencils, books

And their favorite toy that linked them with home

In case they’d feel lonely

 

And now it’s 2020 and it’s our

Great granddaughter little Maddie turn

 

I think what I’m trying to say is

Our worries and our fears inside our heads

Grow and multiply

Will they be bullied?

Will the teachers be kind and understand their wee funny ways

 

This year there is an extra fear

Despite the reassuring words

The hovering fear of Covit 19

Crowd our minds

 

It’s hard to let go of their hand

Their first’ test’ to pass the temperature probe

Will they pass or will they fail?

The closest thing to our hearts

Our children

 

Gemma Hill 2020

 

The August Groom

 

The rooster’s song brought the dawn

My mother’s picture beside the range

Gazed down on me boy and man

Twelve years she’d hung there

And still I felt her mothering care

 

The shunting of carriages came to my ear

Across the fields the train made ready

I hear my mother’s whisper clear

“Go now. Don’t delay

God’s blessing on your wedding day.”

 

Pulling the door behind me to the rooster’s cry

I Looked across to the Donegal Line

The grey black smoke puffing into the sky

Impatient to be away

 

I began my journey to Sion Mill

Not for me the narrow gauge

My racing bike eating up the miles

I raced towards St Theresa’s aisle

 

Three brides stood at the altar rails

My heart swelled with manly pride

My Madge stood there in virgin white

The only one in wedding attire

 

There was a twinkle in her eye

I wondered as we took our vows

Was she remembering?

Winning two silver cups at Sion sport in ‘35

At the racing bikes finale

 

In her humble Gallony home

Food, fit for a banquet grand

Fiddlers, pipers, tin whistle aria

Soared to the rafters

Sending sparks a-flying from the dancing

Until the globe of the rising sun

Chased away the shining mom

 

It was time

Time to take my new bride home

To the cottage by the Donegal rail

And my mother’s image beside the range

 

With sorrowing tears from her sisters many

And a father’s good wishes ringing out clearly

I claimed my bride

Safely circled in my arms the racing bike’s wheels

Hummed the wedding vows

To have and to hold from this day on

Leave family leave friends and cleave to each other.”

Gemma Hill  2020 ©

 

 

 

 

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The Migrant’s Dream

I dream of Ireland, lush and green

Its air fresh on my head and face

The outstretched hand

The welcoming embrace

 

Ireland, a place where strangers

Become friends and later, perhaps,

I native citizens

 

Shackled in this hellhole

I clasp my hands in prayerful fashion

My golden cinderella carriage

A torture chamber now

I close my ears tightly to the sound

Of death and dying on the waves

 

The stench is overpowering now

Sweat, vomit, animal feed, decaying bodies

 

It lies on me heavy and still

Fills up my ears, mouth and throat

Suffocating me by its insidious stealth

Death seems a welcoming release

 

I rouse myself

My dream keeping me alert

My belief

Ireland will welcome me

Ireland will be a welcoming place

 

Shackled both at head and feet

No sound permitted to pass our lips

The lights of a lighthouse

Guides the ship’s path

 

 

Grave quiet, we trundle

Off the heaving sea and on to Irish soil

 

I draw in a gasping breath

Fill my starving lungs with Irish air

Hear the seagull welcome cry

Stretch and kiss this holy land

 

My dream has come true

Ireland welcomes me

 

My gaze feasts on green patchwork pastures

Last leg of journey to a new home

My heart sings

 

Caed Mi Failte for me

Gemma Hill ©

 

 

 

My Name is…

MY NAME IS ANNIE MAUNDER

FROM SWEET STRABANE I CAME

MY FATHER WAS BILL RUSSELL

A FINE PRESBYTERIAN

 

HER FRIENDS CALLED MAMMY HESSEY

SHE BORE HIM SIX STRONG WEANS

SHE EDUCATED ALL O F US

AT HOME “THE MANSE” IT’S NAME

 

MATHEMATICS WAS MY LOVE

ALL DETAILS TO AND FRO

IN BELFAST TOWN I DID EXAMS

AT LADIES SCHOOL   – THEN

WITH SCOLARSHIPS

TO CAMBRIDGE TOWN DID GO

 

SINTON COLLEGE WAS MY HOME

FOR TWO FINE YEARS AND MORE

THE FIRST OF MY SEX FROM IRELAND

A SENIOR RANK TO EARN

THEN I GOT WORK IN GREENWICH

I TOOK PHOTOS OF THE SUN

AND SUNSPOTS AND ECLIPSES

AND CORONAS, ALSO PLUMES

AND I BEGAN TO EDIT, AN ASTROMICAL BRAND

 

OI MARRIED WALTER, SOUL MATE, STAR MAN

WE TRAVELLED NORTH AND SOUTH AND EAST AND WEST

TOGETHER HAND IN HAND

WE SHARED A COMMON PASSION

AT HOME AND IN FAR LANDS

THE SUN, THE, MOON, THE STARS, THE SKIES

ALL CONSTELLATIONS IN GOD’S GREAT PLAN

 

WITHOUT SOUBT THE NAME OF ANNIE MAUNDER FROM DERRY ROAD STRABANE IS TRULY WRITTEN IN THE STARS

 

 

 

 

Today I’d leave my Gallony home

 

The 3rd of August had quickly come
I looked around my Gallony home
The dress lay on the bed end rail
My sleeping sisters slumbering there

My father’s step above
Drew me to the open loft of the wee house
Mother and father since I was six
Today he’d walk me to St Theresa’s Church

My eyes fell on fiddle and bow
My Galloney home warm with songs and marching tunes
My sleeping sisters in their bed
Oh how I’d miss the fun we had

My father Pat’s palm work worn and rough
Strokes my hair and bade me dress
“Today St Theresa’s will see the
Loveliest bride to grace her altar rails.”
The 3rd of August of’38 came on winged feet
My sisters smiling in their sleep
Oh how I’ll miss their company
Today I leave my Gallony home to wed
Gemma C Hill 2020

And how are ye puttin’ in yer day

photo image gemma hill
And how do you put in your day
She asked me most sincerely
I stilled my thoughts and said
Very well – truth be told
My sons visit me regularly
Guard me like a fine work of art
Outside not inside new house rule

Nieces and nephews facetime me
The new me
Video chats and Social Media

Some days I pull on my shoes
And social distance in number 8
Now they even have a chair for me
Strategically place at the garden gate
Or tae-in-me – hand – when desperation sets in

Box sets now the new social norm
Late night viewing habit forming
And to my ecstatic delight
The VHS that took up space
Under the television set for many years
Fixed in a jiffy by my handy son
Gives me hours of endless craic
Watching old video tapes
Us makin’ eejits of ourselves
Packed cheek-to-jowl in my mother’s house
Sons, daughters, grandkids, in-laws,
Outlaws and the neighbours ‘n’ all
A Welcome Home Party in ‘87 for my sister Kathleen

So, as they say in Donegal
I’m puttin’ the time in rightly
And
Lookin’ forward to seeing’ you, unmasked
When we can smile
Not just with our eyes
Chat and socialise over coffee or wine
Or whatever takes our fancy
What do you say to that?
Gemma hill 2020 ©