Sixties, July, heatwave, Wexford,
Mummy and Daddy and Ger-ger and me
The Twelfth Fortnight when revenues fall
Up North and workers take their leave.
We left the tent in Ardamine
for afternoon excursion past
thatched cottage, twinkling rivers, shrines,
museums filled with pikes, and Daddy’s
daily pint in village pub,
Cidona for the underage.
A wrong turn on the journey back
(and Daddy never used a map)
he sought a helpful local who
directed us to Ballycanew.
‘ Go up the hill at Ballycanew
and round the bend at Ballycanew
and down the road at Ballycanew
and past the church at Ballycanew
then watch the signs at Ballycanew
and they will tell you what to do.’
A route, in song, in six-eight time,
no melody, but perfect rhyme!
First published in ‘Star Tips for Writers.’