Gerry Mc Donnell was born and lives in Dublin. He was educated at Trinity College where he edited Icarus literary magazine. He has had six collections of poetry published and a novella. He has also written for stage, radio, television and opera. His writing has been translated into Breton, French, Russian and Romanian. In 2022 a collection of haibun, haiku and senryu, called A Kiss was published by Alba Publishing. His latest book called A Life Reclaimed, is a selection of his writing over the last thirty years, published by Alba Publishing  in 2024. He is a member of the Irish Writers Union.

No Walk in the Park

By Gerry Mc Donnell

Ninety, ninety golden years ago! And I feel every bloody minute of it; dying at a hundred miles an hour! No pigeon English please. You’ll have to dive in at the deep end. ‘I understand only a little.’ My Russian carer! Perfect English! Even discussed Russian literature! Beauty replaces brains, it looks like! Look at this park Notice. No Ball Playing. No Bikes. Dogs Must Be Kept On A Lead. By Order! That’s a joke!  ‘Dogs are running to everywhere. We walk on the path. It is safe.’ A half lap. ‘Lap?’ Yes, half-way around. Those bloody dogs would knock you over. And those little yappers, nippin’ at your heels! A fallen branch! Silver beech! ‘I take it.’ Behind the laurel bushes! Not on top! Behind them! Dislodged in last night’s storm. Heavy drops of rain all night, exploding in my grate! Trench warfare! Why do you bring me to this park? ‘Doctor Sherry.’ Sherry with his rosy nose. Nippy enough! Where are you from? ‘Chile.’ Nippy Chile! Where in Chile? ‘Valpariso.’ Valpariso? ‘Yes!’ Tháinig long ó Valparaiso/ Scaoileadh téad a seol sa chuan,/ Chuir a hainm dom I gcuimhne/ Ríocht na Gréine, / Tír na mBua. ‘What language?’ Irish, my native tongue! ‘What it means?’ Haven’t a clue, beaten into me in school, eighty golden years ago. ‘Beaten?’ Yes, six of the best on each hand. ‘I don’t understand. I try Google.’ Speak of the devil. There goes your phone. No escape. ‘Only one minute, please.’ Don’t rush. I’ll sit down on the bench. ‘Hi Maria. Estoy en el parque con el anciano. No entiendo lo que dice. Es como mi abuelo, quizas un poeta. Quedamos a las cuatro para tomar un café en Voici? Genial! Estoy estresado. Sorry, Sir.’ That’s ok. One minute. True to your word! Are you Catholic? ‘Yes, why I like Ireland.’ I’m lapsed. ‘You fall?’ Yes, like the Devil and his Angles. I wonder what comes after lapsed. Hell? Thou shall not kill. Do you go to Mass? ‘Of course!’ Can’t stand the hypocrisy!

This park was only for the gentry at one time. Privileged residents had keys to gain entry. Now it’s open to the plebs, running amuck. ‘Plebs?’ Ah don’t start! The landed gentry. I go back that far; could have strolled here, in morning dress, my wife on my arm, twirling a parasol. Seventy golden years ago! Lovers, us two. White roses, no poppies! ‘We lovers?’ Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. ‘We go back now?’  If only!