Whistle a tune for Dollymont Strand
I use to smell those tarts,
through a gap in the door.
Crouch down low
I could only see the floor and Uncle Fint’s,
black boots as he shuffled.
I could never stay for long, if
nanny was making tea. I was usually chased out.
The smiling threat of a heavy broom, but laughter galore
when I ran, for the door and she said ‘will call you later’ .
I’d run and scamper to skip stones, along Dollymount shore.
Watching them bounce to disappear.
My belly less nauseous moving from hungry grumbles
to sweet skips of joy. Each new bounce was a record
Though as soon as the sun went down I’d
rush back to the door, to hear
The jingle, jangle of Uncle Paddy’s keys .
Singing, his old Dublin songs, falling through
the door, and me behind him trying to catch
Change from his pockets.
That rattled as he rolled to the door.
A whiff of porter lingering on his breath.
Her chops smelt, though her apple sauce was tasty.
She always served Paddy first and
through a gap in the door, I watched
him dance round the floor. My granny
And him arm in arm, my eyes alight.
As I whistled a tune for Dollymount.