I was born on one edge of Charleville and grew up at the southern end of Holy Cross, in Kennedy place. A place that never felt like somewhere I just lived at, but the only true home, I have ever known.
This Poem follows the little hill that was like the boundary of Kennedy Place and Holy Cross. The climb on bicycles, the friendly rivalries between neighbours and all the quiet layers beneath the surface.
here living and resting share the same ground. The shadows of Penal times linger in the old stone, and the name of Sean Clarach – Our towns great bard – still whispers through the grass. He is one of the reasons I ever began to write; proof that even a ‘Covie‘ – a local boy, someone ordinary to the world – can carry poetry deep in his bones, and do it simply out of love.
Holy Cross is both an estate and graveyard, neighbour and resting place. It holds my roots, my people, my son and every memory that shaped me. One day far from now, I too will lie there amoung the familiar ground. Until then, these lines are my map: here is where I started, where I belong, and where I will always return.
GLOSSARY:
Covie : Local Slang in Charleville and surrounding parts od Nth Cork / West limerick; means someone born and bred in the area, rooted in its ways and its stories.
Holy Cross : The name of both a housing estate and the historic graveyard / old Church site in Charleville; the place where generations of families including some of my own, are laid to rest.
Sean Clarach MacDomhnaill : Born near Charleville c. 1690, the most famous Gaelic Poet of his time in Munster. His work work kept the language and tradition alive through difficult years, and he remains a proud part of our town’s identity.
Penal Times : The period from the 17th to early 19th century,when laws restricted Catholic Worship and education; old churches were left in ruin, and faith was often practised in secret.
Maigue : The River Maigue, which flows through Charleville and the surrounding countryside, it’s sound and presence are part of the landscape’s constant voice.
Shell : Used here to describe the roofless, ruined remains of the old church: the outer structure still stands, but the inner life is gone.
Where My Steps First Began.
Short rise from road - light for young feet,
yet bicycles needed one extra push;
my first hill, between home fold and fond
Holy Cross, where walls fade low, then length.
At heart—the shell, moss-veiled and mild,
arch-lines blurred like some forgotten word;
Penal times' low shadow still confides,
roofless hollow - hardly seen or heard.
There in the quiet shell Clárach lies -
chief bard where altar stones once rose;
few read his name where green creeps high,
just as we miss what broken arches hold.
New graves beside old ground - mother, kin, my son,
one soft circle where the records rest;
I bow and whisper each familiar name...
so many pass - unseeing, unaddressed.
There are sounds that stay and call:
sparrow-shift, wind threading through stone,
Maigue's murmur, low leaf-light, ivy's breath,
rain soft on shelf where chant was known.
Not yet my time - long walks still unspun,
still bird-script traced in dust and meadow moss;
but here I belong, where all my steps began...
one day - fall soft - among the home-known cross.
Copyright © 2026 Pat Fitzgerald
All Rights Reserved
Thank you for joining me on this journey of writing and discovery. Poetry, for me, is a continuous learning process. A way of finding my own voice and writing style and exploring the beauty of words.
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