Black Irish

This is Macy,
Tomas’ pony.
They live on the smallest of the Aran Islands, Inisoirr,
just off the west coast of Ireland,
surrounded by the Wild Atlantic Sea.

It’s a tiny hillock of burren,
interlaced with drystone dykes built from the ancient limestone,
woven through with thatched cottages and St. Gobnait’s church, St. Edna’s holy well,
and topped with the stone ruins of O’Brien’s Castle.

It’s a thin place. I know because I’ve been there.
There’s a gorgeous stretch of sandy beach.
Herself knows because she walked it,
and sat on the flat stone to take off her shoes and socks
to be christened by the waves… on the other side of her ocean.

At the farthest southern edge,
where you can stand, and, on a clear day,
just make out the cliffs of Moher,
in between the green pastures and craggedy stone walls,
stands this black house.

It would probably have had a thatched roof in it’s day,
with a packed earth floor and a central hearth fire.
The smoke from centuries of use would have blackened the interior,
where the family shared the winter, with their livestock.
I heard a story that one end of the stone cottage would be taken down in the spring
to allow the animals, who could not fit through the small doorway,
back out to graze in the pastures, and then be rebuilt,
with cattle inside, once the colder season was settling in.

The origin of the term Black Irish has several historic interpretations.
The one I like best is that the dark haired, dark eyed Irish are,
(as quoted from a website… @Irishcentral),
“descendants of the few Spanish sailors who were washed up on the west coast of Ireland
after the disaster of the Spanish Armada of 1588.

As she walks on,
over the cobbled lanes of Inisoirr,
Macy’s heavy breaths
take in that same earthy peat smoke,
which would have wafted over the gravestones
of every sailor who ever washed up
on this shore.

I was just such a seafaring soul.
Who hopes to return.