Creels

CREELS My father spent hours trimming the edges of the newly cut sally rods, to make creels fore taking the turf over the soft soil of the bog, so that the horse and cart could bring it home for the winter time. I watch how he scalloped the edges, tightly tied and intricately weaved the fresh wood. He was always making tools, repairing them. Birsy with his hands, he wasted no time, toook no holidays, or trips away, except once a year, cycling to Mohill for the Manachan Day Fair with my mother. When they got home, the sun was a low ember, the cows milked. PUBLISHED in PERFUME OF THE SOIL, SWAN PRESS, DUBLIN l999