I first heard of Creeslough from a crackling LP
In a dirge from an exile upon the high sea
A lament for the cutting of ties to the land
A concept a schoolchild could scarce understand.
In a world preoccupied by energy anxiety
Destruction caused by a fuel – a cruel, cruel irony
At about three twenty, ten drew their last breath
What brought them together to be united in death?
None, not schoolgoers, parents, workers or wives
Were considered to be near the end of their lives
A transient assemblage brought together unplanned
Now united forever by chance’s cold hand.
Emigration has imposed losses as burning
Sadness yet tinged with the hope of returning
But resilience is stretched, severed as by a knife
By this suddenness, randomness, quenching of life.
A meitheal exhumes a grim harvest this season.
We may uncover the cause but never the reason
While the thronged congregations hear of revival
A balm for those living with the guilt of survival.
In scattered Donegal graveyards neighbours turn the sods
And wonder aloud wherefore then were the gods
While the bereaved and bewildered gather to pray
There is no corn being cut in Creeslough today.
– Tom Hayden
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