Miguel DeArce, now living in Galway (Salthill), born Zaragoza Spain 1950, graduated in Natural Sciences (Navarre 1974, PhD 1978, then moved to Dublin working in UCD in Genetic Pathology. 1988 moved to TCD (Genetics) doing the same work. From 2007 began to write History (20 papers published). Also poems in Poetry Ireland Review and in the UK in the 1990s. “Campus Poems” self-published 1999.
By Miguel DeArce
Wherever the morning takes me, whether I bring from Salthill an eyeful of green or a dog’s friendly grin, impressions or whims, whatever the season the amnesiac town clock happens to ring, home is in the upper field of the rounded hill and you get there through a narrow lane, incongruously marked “80” at the end. I always walk it, and it is always up, slow and gentle. With no wall or gate, just the nameplate, your entry is assured, and if you are gentry, a threefold lineup of gold daffodils, like men at the bar ordering something, will meet all with sound trumpeting.
Sturdy tree trunks, with the girth of age, barely blink as they talk and groan after a stormy drink, only their tops tall and slim bow at the waist as if welcoming, and seem to confer joining heads reverently, then disagree and look down on me and my drunken steps among the shrivelled ferns where they submerge their improbable legs. Legions of drops thud on the hood of a bald man’s skull, and load and weigh down the shaggy fur coat of my largely fictitious hound of compound pedigree.
Home is a warm womb, the time to unfurl the sounds and thoughts found unsought, to weave the thin threads into webs that endure. Home is the sense of it all, the long term review where i daily view my cargo of dreams, my old fourty thieves that lived in bagdad in a cave of gold, my bearded turks, turbaned grand vizirs, the enchanting night-reads of princesses and kings, the petal, the pillow, the rose, where pronouns sit down to tea and scones.