Ag tosnu. Gooldscross to Limerick Junction. A tricky route with briars and fairy thorn to scraube one if one should vere or hunt along the way. The Suir river flows through Ardmayle, under the bridge by the Creamery, where the clanging of churns still echo the morning stillness, as horses whiney, chains clack, and iron shod wooden wheels crunch and splinter pebbles on the roadside. Boherlan had beaten Clonulty was to be heard in guffaw in the time warp. Dragonflies were in abundance and mayflies were no doubt about. And although it was crisp t’was clear summer was on the way. Expectancy hovered in consciousness, time stood still, very still. Maia, the daughter of Atlas and mother of Mercury by Jupiter, a merry month when young people wash their faces in the May morning dew and thereby refresh their vigour. And somehow I stood on the wall of the bridge observing the hurly burly of a Monday morning, where men bartered with cabbage plants, seed potatoes and some penknife shavings from a plug of Mick McQuaid or Old Condor, or a little sup of the creathur to take the sting out of the morning and clear the vision for the day ahead.

The camaraderie of working men accustomed to hardship, pain, endurance, and used to toiling in the most inclement weather, was heartening to behold and lifted my hopes. The backbone of rural Ireland was in evidence here before me and not the imagery presented by the slick mouthpieces of political parties or vested interests of big business 2 fronted by upholders of the Bar and Kings Inns or the soutaned piranha pulpit preachers. No these were principled men who remained true. It’s hard to beat the clarity that is clearly perceptible thru the mist and steamy fog that rises up from hard-working dray horses on a frosty morning and the mingled sniff of sweat from man and animal united in labour. Real communion is where truth abides and true communism begins to replace the fearful paranoid selfish submission to the abdication of responsible parenting. Here I am still standing on the bridge in my short trousers, chilblained thighs, and scabby, bruised knees with a question mark of black curly hair hanging over the squinting eye of doubt and growing scepticism. Creado, Creado, is only cre in the long-run. We all go back to it, just like the Suir in a yellow flood after heavy rain up stream near the Devil’s Bit on the way to the sea. And if we sidetrack this ‘yellow flood’ to a stagnant pool with no current, it settles into just clay, the minerals from whence we came, and with water and light began. Le cunamh solas De. “Le cunamhh solas ‘gus gra taimse”. With the help of light and love am in body form now, perceptible in spirit form, not quite invisible, but tangible in the notions and daydreams of gypsy fiddlers, bygone harpists, poets and patriots, swami communists and premies of all ages.. “Alone, all alone by the wave washed strand. All alone in Slieve na mBan”.With a dream of love in the core of your heart, your heart, you are indestructible, you live forever. In such a state of grace abides a vision of a fountain, a well that provided sustenance to man, beast and crops subterraneousley linked to Aherlow River and then 3 eventually to the shore, flowing, flowing, flowing. This journey is what it is about, the destination is destitution- if we should stop and become attached,- we continue going on, going on, growing beyond dimensions of big or small, good or bad, beautiful or ugly, eternally singing in gratitude for this awareness and consciousness for this wonderful gift of life and the capacity and opportunity it grants with each breath to feel within and be the creator of love. Yes, a great omnipotent feeling full to the brim of good will, with not the slightest space for negativity.

To realise such experience with it’s depth and profundity was difficult for the boy on the bridge, surrounded as he was by the family and cultural circumstances he was born into, or maybe had chosen to be born into. To realise is why he got a body and a life, to make real, to bring certainty, to verify by experience his own true nature. Who am I? Not the powerless infant who had water poured on his head by a celibate and had brandy and champagne foisted on his undeveloped metabolism by an unconscious or unaware grandfather in so-called celebration of the perpetuity of a name continuing to run from his blood lines. No the attempt to shackle him to the flock of sheep who could abdicate their responsibility for selfish actions by mere confession, to an alter performer of so-called sacrifice Was not acceptable then or now.. “Alone, all alone by the wave washed strand” No he knew even then from whence he came and he had no need for confirmation or any interpreter between him and the source of life that breathed 4 him. Dogs and birds were sure companions and had always alerted him to certainty, the sound in the silence, the light in the darkness, the companionship in the wilderness, while his nostrils still flared to screen and identify each new scent. Close to nature was safer than civilization. He had seen the aurora borealis and was intrigued and while going to sleep at night, sailed astrally among the Seven Sisters knowing that snakes and dragons were part of his past lives here in Munster. In the day to day world of parents, teachers, and schools, light was always defined by it’s shadow. So consequently all innocent little beings kept their light under a bushel or else they invoked the wrath and punishment from those who dominated and overwhelmed in the dark clerical shadow world. Demon-strance from the monstrance at so-called benediction time, seemed set up to terrify and overwhelm the questions by those seeking any increase in devotional attitude, a sham in the portrayal of a Real Presence. The Real Presence glows golden bright and is fanned by each gifted breath, which every secure infant beholds within him, or herself, and that is without instruction from any church, state or authority.

Another throwback to the bridges at Ardmayle I find myself galvanized like an empty water bucket awaiting the gush of water from the third stroke of the pump. My time-warped familiar, peers petulantly at me looking upwards from downcast, furrowed, worried, brows and I wonder to myself “what’s this past, present and future business”. There are times in life when it feels, all the one. “ Feeling at one with it all” gives great latitude for expansion and 5 allows me bi-location faculties between the Moat of Ardmayle and that Shiva rock mound in Kerala, when India was known as Argavarta, the abode of the Aryans,(the noble worthy people). The Shi were in evidence here then and still held a strong and meaningful influence on those that lived by the fordable river here. When the river was in flood then, the Criostopher, a simple, kind giant, stood forth to ferry the needy and something of that great strength and kindness still lurks in the vicinity of the bridge that was built on the spot.

The magical properties from downstream are further enhanced as the clumh eala (swan down), clumh seala (signet down) mingle with the waters of the Clodiagh. The soul paddlers that were happy to continue existence in long-necked form, hollow voicing inward sounds of “hansa” content and serene in acceptance, awaiting, awaiting, awaiting, the dawning. Yes, time is shown for what it is in the maya mirror - Rush and hurry have not been ushered into consciousness. Like Kristy Sidartha on the banks of the surging river, wondering what he could meaningfully do, he realised – he could sit – he could wait. Peace, real peace prevails in such realizations- that is when one is not preoccupied with feeding family. The seriousness and tension in the air that depravation provided was grounding and anchored the bridge to present day circumstances. To get the start put you on the way With camaraderie of working men Then and only then could the spirit soar 6 And hope could roar once more In the vacuumed hollows tunnelled by long suffering deprivation To have work with pay Would brighten the darkest day And nourish the seed of a future expectation. “A red flag will eventually flutter”. Ah yes! The tough uncle yank priest praised “McCarthy” And killed communists in his head with his monogrammed hunting rifle And he spent bigshot loud and hearty. While the other gentle-voiced uncle yank priest, distributed his dollar to the poor relations and gave encouragement towards education and never a word of Condemnation.

From the middle of a bridge it’s a great place to view the world –one foot towards tomorrow the other one towards yesterday and what’s going beneath you is today and that’s flowing. “Nearly never bulled a cow “and every country child who had faculties knows that for sure, but they have the good sense not to talk too much about it in front of the adults. Now I remember the actress from London and Dublin –Rosie and she was gorgeous .She had curly blonde hair and wore see through lace-curtain nightdresses around the farm in the afternoon. and she’d tousle my hair while she was looking at the big black Frisian bull doing his duty. She would sing a lovely dreamy song and laugh when it was over, and then make tea to wash down the Marietta biscuits. My father always got

7 excited and was always laughing and joking with her and she with him but if my mother heard it “there was who began it” for the best part of a week around the house –oh! She’d

very vexed entirely. Even though she liked Rosie too but she didn’t want my father to like her, -adults are quare aren’t they! Well while still on the bridge here looking down stream to the field on the left, the poor black bull is now chained from the nose pulling a railway sleeper around a field to slow him down, while a pile of red heifers are teasing him with their bawling and prancing on top of one another from across the field on the other side of the river. Well now he is the buck that would put smacht on them if he got over. Then –loud and clear across the river, the bull, the heifers, and the workmen around the creamery all freeze, to listen, all of them cocking their heads, to the, cuckoo-Cuckoo-cuckoo.