Michael Longley, “Leaving Inishmore”
From No Continuing City (1968)
Rain and sunlight and the boat between them
Shifted whole hillsides through the afternoon –
Quiet variations on an urgent theme
Reminding me now that we left too soon
The island awash in wave and anthem.
Miles from the brimming enclave of the bay
I hear again the Atlantic’s voices,
the gulls above us as we pulled away –
So munificent their final noises
These are the broadcasts from our holiday.
Oh, the crooked walkers on that tilting floor!
And the girls singing on the upper deck
Whose hair took the light like a downpour –
Interim nor change of scene shall shipwreck
Those folk on the move between shore and shore.
Summer and solstice as the seasons turn
Anchor our boat in a perfect standstill,
The harbour wall of Inishmore astern
Where the Atlantic waters overspill –
I shall name this the point of no return
Lest that excursion out of light and heat
Take on a January idiom –
Our ocean icebound when the year is hurt,
Wintertime past cure – the curriculum
Vitae of sailors and the sick at heart.
We took the 1pm ferry from Rossaveal, the air heavy with salt and rust, the sea a thick wet blanket that refuses to see the sun.
It was May, the clouds hung low in the sky, there was little light, and even less heat.
Seagulls’ call replaced with the droning engine and pop songs grated through the radio. No one sang on the upper deck – the Atlantic’s voices muffled under the sound of the battering wind.
Walking up to Dún Aonghasa we saw rock walls, strange plants, and misted hills that blended into clouds that blended into the sea. An island isolated by clouds. Along one side of the fort was a sheer cliff drop. Waves crashing into the cliff face sounded like cannon shots.
We left the cloud-shrouded Inis Mor on the second ferry at 5:15pm, and on the journey back to Rossaveal I went out to the stern of the ferry and read this poem to the churning waves.
I remembered a funny little anecdote regarding Edna and Michael Longley and his habit of smoking, told to us by a Northern Irish lecturer who brought biscuits and tea and coffee and a kettle to every seminar.
What would Michael Longley think now, then? Are we not all folks on the move between shore and shore?
The year is no less hurt, and as the ferry pulled into the harbour and prepared to dock, passengers wobbling into balance to shuffle past the rows of leathery, plastic-y chairs, the new reporter’s casual sombre update filtered over the speakers – how many injured, how many killed outside a concert stadium in Manchester.
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