Donegal photo of three siblings seen
seated on a Morris Minor bumper,
mother-made our Aran jumpers,
enthroned that bedraggled queen;
see mountain mist slyly descend
– what might that fog portend?
Years later sibling-scholars went
to language school at Loch Anure;
our parents were entrepreneurs,
once worked nearby: time spent
pioneering with textile design –
greatly blessed, locals benign.
The youngest of three decided
to visit weaving shed shrine
of family myth, no holy sign –
cottage whitewash walls guided
our slow passage across the bog,
sunken boots slowed foot slog.
Then a shed offered rain-refuge,
North-western weather altered:
reams of rain, young voyagers halted,
plastic macs dripped from deluge;
feared the farmer, told our intent,
food and tea offered, burnt-turf scent.
Pilgrim journey then wisely cancelled,
muscular mountains never traversed;
that Donegal dream later reversed:
wooden looms reluctantly dismantled;
weave became flawed, soft fabric frayed;
who could mend when few prayers made?