Anne Rigney lives in Knockcroghery, Roscommon. She is a visual artist. She recently took part in creative writing workshops with Jane Clarke and Gerry Boland at Roscommon Arts Centre. Anne had always kept journals and was a bit of a scribbler. She is a novice and is enjoying the process of writing. Anne finds that her writing opens a portal to memories from her past.
Bonfire
From the porch at dusk, I watch sparks rise from the bonfire,
Rust yellow and gold flames dance and swirl upwards,
Lighting up the evening sky
The stinging aroma of burnt wood wafts into every corner,
Anointing us with a Solstice Blessing.
A Small group crouched and gazed into the flames from old chairs and bales of hay.
Some threw branches onto the fire, others drew back.
A song broke out occasionally, unsettling the night air.
The red-haired woman sang a lilting song.
Her son watching, smiles to himself.
They raise their glasses to health and long life.
A few get up and dance, moving lazily to an ancient rhythm.
Two black alpacas stand, hypnotized by the fire and heat.
Their silhouettes add a middle eastern flavour.
While up above, the space station moves slowly through the air.
New mats
Spread and rolled over freshly swept floor.
Brown, yellow, blue, gold, and red woven threads enliven the dark grey cement.
A toddler watches, soon toys are abandoned with the excitement of this new game.
On her knees she pushes and rolls the second mat with her small hands.
Suddenly, she leaps up, dances, and prances with abandon on the new surface.
Moving to her own internal rhythm.
She swirls twirls and circles the room like a dervish.
Blessing the old house with her effervescent spirit.
Baby gurgles and chuckles as he watches his sister frolic around him.
On his back, he kicks his chubby legs, crows, baa-ba, baa – ba, daa- da, da.
Sensing the recharged energy of the old house as it is roused from its slumber.
The beautiful young mother keeps a vigilant eye, smiles at their antics.
Grandma reclines on the mat too, savours the moment, wonders how she will ever get up.
Ancestorial ghosts rejoice and the walls of the old house smile.
Wash day
A white patchwork of sheets spread out on the long green grass.
Dazzling in the Summer sunshine.
Water carried from the green pump, up the road.
Trudge up and down, metal bucket dangles.
Empty one way and heavy going back.
push the pump handle up and down, up, and down.
Water flows noisily, swishing into the bucket.
which hangs on the nose of the pump.
Metal bangs against calves of legs.
Drops splashing on the hot cement road.
Smells of black melted tar wafts in the air.
Plastic sandals sticking to the road.
Cotton dress splashed and dark stains of damp beat against sturdy legs.
Young arms lengthened by the heavy weight of liquid.
Saucepans filled to overflowing.
Boil and steam on smoky black range.
Clothes hand washed in grey metal bath.
standing on two wooden cream chipped chairs.
Facing each other they hold the vessel, weighed down.
A well-worn wooden serrated washboard sits waiting.
Hot soapy smells pervade the small kitchen.
Entering the nostrils and mouth.
Hair shiny and damp
Beads of sweat on forehead.
Ruby red soap melts on the table.
She bends over.
pushing and heaving hot sheets, up and down.
Up and down. Up and downs.
Her knuckles white, face gleaming with sweat.
Brown curly hair damp with steam.
Sudsy speckled froth overflows.
Sopping sheets squeezed with strong hands,
Rinsed in separate buckets.
Carried into the June sunshine onto the lush meadow.
Spread out, stretched on verdant grasses.
Robins and house sparrows’ song sprinkle the air.
The song of the cuckoo in the distance.
She stands with hands on hips.
Looks at her labour and says,
There is nothing sweeter than sleeping on sun dried sheets.
Meltdown
Packing your bags,
Emptying your room
Beginning a new life with your love.
I am in the hot press,
Gathering sheets, towels, and blankets
For your fledgling home.
Some people call it the linen closet,
The organized ones who fussily fold tidy and iron.
You did not get one of those, My darling girl,
Instead, a scattered, disorganized Mother,
Who preferred painting.
But here I am in the Hot-press, weeping as you leave.
Hamet Gader spa. Golan Heights. Israel
In a cool dark dressing room, I change into my swimsuit.
Emerge into the heat of the desert.
A short walk to the canopied pool.
This was a different oasis, no doubt discovered by ancient settlers in this holy land.
Maybe a special spot of King Herod or Jesus himself
I descend into the grey sulphurous water.
Another baptism.
Emerging with a motley crew of humans.
All in the same boat here.
Each in their own worlds.
The natural springs bubbles up from the earth.
Sulphuric aromas permeate the air.
My body warmed by the healing waters.
As timeless as the world.
Deep hurts and resentments melt away.
Old memories stirred and assuaged in this cauldron of human suffering.
The ancient waters have seen it all.
No pain is new here.
It takes it all back.
Into the earth where it all began.
Memories are stirred disturbed, defrosted.
Liquefied out of dark corners of my psyche.
Tears roll down my face.
Seasoning the antediluvian aqua.
I weep silently.
Invisible, under a roman archway.
Among men and woman from many cultures
All here for the curative power of the Spa.
Bodies soothed and recharged in the earth’s natural holy well.
Some have obvious physical disabilities.
Others, invisible trauma.
Some just wanting peace.
This land has not known peace for centuries.
If only, one could immerse the whole country here and cure its wounds.
The Galway Review 