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About Nick Games
😘 Sempre esteja Feliz . Porque faz bem a saúde ........
The rain comes flapping through the yard like a tablecloth that she hand-embroidered. My mother has left it on the line. It is sodden with rain. The mushroom shed is windowless, wide, its high-stacked wooden trays hosed down with formaldehyde. And my father has opened the gates of Troy to that first load of horse manure. Barley straw. Gypsum. Dried blood. Ammonia. Wagon after wagon blusters in, a self-renewing gold-black dragon we push to the back of the mind. We have taken our pitchforks to the wind.
All brought back to me that September evening fifteen years on. The pair of us tripping through Barnett's fair demesne like girls in long dresses after a hail-storm. We might have been thinking of the fire-bomb that sent Malone House sky-high and its priceless collection of linen sky-high. We might have wept with Elizabeth McCrum. We were thinking only of psilocybin. You sang of the maid you met on the dewy grass- And she stooped so low gave me to know it was mushrooms she was gathering O.
He'll be wearing that same old donkey-jacket and the sawn-off waders. He carries a knife, two punnets, a bucket. He reaches far into his own shadow. We'll have taken him unawares and stand behind him, slightly to one side. He is one of those ancient warriors before the rising tide. He'll glance back from under his peaked cap without breaking rhythm: his coaxing a mushroom-a flat or a cup- the nick against his right thumb; the bucket then, the punnet left or right, and so on and so forth till kingdom come.
We followed the overgrown tow-path by the Lagan. The sunset would deepen through cinnamon to aubergine, the wood-pigeon's concerto for oboe and strings, allegro, blowing your mind. And you were suddenly out my ken, hurtling towards the ever-receding ground, into the maw of a shimmering green-gold dragon. You discovered yourself in some outbuilding with your long-lost companion, me, though my head had grown into the head of a horse and shook its dirty-fair mane and spoke this verse:
Come back to us. However cold and raw, your feet were always meant to negotiate terms with bare cement. Beyond this concrete wall is a wall of concrete and barbed wire. Your only hope is to come back. If sing you must, let your song tell of treading your own dung, let straw and dung give a spring to your step. If we never live to see the day we leap into our true domain, lie down with us now and wrap yourself in the soiled grey blanket of Irish rain that will, one day, bleach itself white. Lie down with us and wait.