Author’s note – this is a piece of fiction. A couple of my regular readers thought that my life had taken a strange turn – although these fictional ramblings are not too far from my own experiences, they are made up. I like the idea of inventing characters and events that in some ways mirror my own life but with juicier bits thrown in. Apologies for any confusion.
The marquee was packed with poetry lovers of all varieties; young, old, stylishly casual, shambolic and everything in between. The performance poets were very polished in their delivery. Agnes O’Connor was brilliant – her rendition of a poem that portrayed a bipolar artist was very moving and quite funny. Colin was a ball of energy raging against the world, himself and then, twisting the camera round to focus on the audience, we all shared in his astute observations.
I got a chance to read my poems near the end of the session and saved a ballad for last. The guitarist was a local lad who improvised a very accomplished backing to my ballad called No Fish in the River. It seemed to go down well even though my voice was a bit strained. Afterwards we regrouped in the Shamrock bar and patted each other on the back. There were one or two dark and dreary poems that left me cold, but in the main I thought the standard was high and the poetry uplifting.
Agnes, Colin, Audrey and myself had not eaten since lunchtime, so we went in search of food. The takeaway restaurants in Falcarragh did not appeal. Audrey suggested we eat at their house and grab some wine on the way. Pasta, bread, wine and cheese went down very well and then we flopped on sofas to put the world to rights. By 3 am we were ready to crash. I slept on the sofa with the turf fire still flickering.
I awoke to the sound of rain and drew back the curtains to see dark, low clouds shrouding the hilly landscape.
odespinner 