Ballycanew

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.’

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