FOND MEMORIES OF MY LAND
It is now nearing the end of April nineteen-forty-seven and it's Sunday morning, I am going away on the Monday morning and everyone knows that, except Eddie. I had been picking up courage all week to break the news to him so Sunday afternoon I walked down the platform to where he was leaning on the crossing gate, he often stood there in his spare time waiting for someone to have a chat to. These gates seemed to be a meeting point for many people in Killyran. I told him that I was going into the RAF and that I would be leaving tomorrow morning. He said "I hope you know what you are doing but I wish you all the best." I knew deep down that he was as pleased as punch but he did not show it, I bet the next day he told everyone that he saw the news. He would relish the thought of his nephew being in the forces as his loyalties were with the crown.
I read a poem the other day that summed up my feelings on that particular morning.
Rusty bucket and broken pot
Cottage ruins tumbled down
Long and low with roof of thatch
My heart is there where once I grew
The door to the house is broken
But should memories be allowed to mellow in the mind, to fade into soft gentle shades of sepia like sunset at the end of a day. I can hear the train coming up from Bawnboy so I make my way back up the platform and say my goodbyes. We steam away from Killyran, I look out through tear stained eyes as the little whitewashed thatched houses flash past in a blur. I am leaving behind these happy band of hard working people but should they all fade away their names and memories will I hope not be forgotten through this book.
© Bill Gerty 1995