Francie McGrory

Delicate fog gently grazes the landscape. Dreamlike and dancing. The flushed lilac sky impressively contrasts the Dromara Hills, like a shanty town in South America.

An old lady trots down Drumnasoo. Just a slip of a woman, vanishing in seconds. I try to recall her appearance but it was too opaque. Was she really crying? I am not so sure. I think she was flogging her free-range eggs with the mellow yellow yolks.

Back into town at the roundabout, I can see Francie McGrory. He is always chopping grass, tearing away at the shears. I hope he has time to nourish himself. That roundabout has the fastest growing grass in the country. He never leaves there, and always standing on the periphery; Strange man.

It is getting dark. The abrasive, winding aroma of burning coal is stinging my lungs. It looks like a Victorian postcard scene. All you need is a dozen top hats and oil lamps and hey presto! I should not be thinking like this. There is not a sinner around and I am sure that streetlight was shivering.

I drive swiftly down the loaning. The main thoroughfare to the big castle. I never understood why they called the big castle. It looks more like a bridge to me. They say an ancient Irish king lived there thousands of years ago. He must have fallen badly out of favour.

Before I arrive, I battle through a Waltzer of lights. My head is ponderous with the pulsing noises. I brake harshly, letting a court jester cross the road. He is freaking me out, the scallywag. I reckon he brought the king down.

Encircling, I head back up the lane. Everything is sedate like Saturday afternoon on a council estate. I need to check if Francie is still working. I drive upwards. He is still there. I park the car on a heavily weeded layby and walk to the roundabout.

As I approach benignly, miraculously, he is gone, not a trace. Thank goodness. That man needs his sleep badly. Come to think of it, so do I!

Patrick James McCurdie 2021