Conceived there
But not born there
I’ve being going back all my life
To Mayo and to Erris by the sea
At six months old they carried me
And placed me cradle warm
And Nan crossed me with iron
Safe from harm
And people there know people
What else would you do?
The land is poor
The people rich in grace
Lives were intermingled
Work and Mass and dance
Walking in the air
Chat when you get the chance
When people die in Erris
Everybody knows
Messages are sent
To Mid West Radio
People in big cities
Can die and no one cares
But in the wilds of Erris
You’re in everybody’s prayers
Brian Fahy
9 November 2021
+ One morning In Glencullen, at six months old, I was sleeping in my cradle near the fireside. My grandmother was watching over me. Needing to go outside and leaving me alone in the house, she put the iron tongs across my cradle to protect me from the Little People. The day I was told that story I felt an adrenalin rush in my body, like the warmth of my grandmother’s love embracing me.
Erris Poetry 