Donegal Gaeltacht days of memory
& that six o'clock presumptuous scene:
All other pre-pubescent scholars
knelt in male-clumsy choreography.
They uttered rote religious phrases reluctantly;
Such supplications had never previously
graced these innocent Protestant ears.
(were these “decades” piously uttered “as Gaeilge”?)
The “ban a tighe” set the irreverent pace,
hastily threading her crucifix adorned necklace
through work-worn fingers.
Over the fireplace an Aryan-like Jesus
exposed a symbolic bleeding heart
casually & apparently painlessly.
Ignorant of this religious ritual,
my face reddened challenging the votive light
that spookily illuminating Jesus' beatific face.
Dumbstruck this unwitting “separated” soul,
a caste apart, a pitied Prod:
misplaced among cradle Catholics.
I inhaled the incense of turf scented air,
wishing an end to this embarrassement.
Like any other awkward Irish Protestant,
I kept my unblessed head down,
until the faithful finished.
What after-Mass fun & games were missed
behind the sentinel-like hand-ball alleys?
My two brothers & I bounced along bog roads
sitting silently on the shiny,
red back seat of a Ford Anglia.
Were we being reluctantly chauffered,
to the dreary solemn service in distant Dungloe?
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