A Memory from the Bóithrín

Introduction

Some memories remain with us long after the details surrounding them have faded. Faces become indistinct, names slip away, and yet the events themselves can remain as clear as the day they happened.

This poem grew from a real childhood experience, on a cold evening when a group of us heard what sounded like a child crying in the darkness near our homes. Two of us went to investigate, only to find that the source of the cry seemed to elude us. Fear eventually sent us running back to the others, leaving us with an experience we could neither explain nor forget.

My companion moved away not long afterwards, and as the years passed, I lost the name and face of the boy who had run beside me. Curiously, the memory of that night remained.

Growing up, we were taught to respect the Good People and to leave them to their own ways. I have no explanation for what we heard that evening, nor do I claim one. Perhaps some things are best left where they are, beyond the reach of certainty.

This poem is not an attempt to solve a childhood mystery. It is a reflection on what time takes from us, what it leaves behind, and how an experience can endure even when parts of its story have been lost.

Memory from the Bóithrín

The evening settled soft around the rath.

We were young —

a small group of us,

talking and laughing, our voices carrying

down the quiet bóithrín.

Then the laughter quieted of itself,

for there,

rising from the grass,

came a child’s cry.

All of us heard it —

every face turned toward that sound.

But only two of us stepped forward,

walking away from the others,

following that small, pleading voice.

It sounded clear,

it sounded real —

yet never quite where we thought it was.

We thought we had it,

then it slipped —

closer at first, then further on,

always just out of reach.

We followed again, deeper still,

between the houses, into the dark.

The cry shifted once more,

and the air grew suddenly still.

That’s when the fear rose up in us —

sharp and sudden, cold in the chest.

We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to.

We just turned and ran —

breathless, hearts pounding,

back toward where the others waited,

away from the cry we could not find.

I remember that run so clearly —

the rush of the air, the dark closing in,

and someone beside me, matching my stride.

His name and face, lost to the years,

leaving only the memory of that flight.

Now all these years later,

I know better than to follow.

The Good People walk their own old roads,

under their own quiet sky.

I leave them to their ways —

kindness for kindness,

space for space.




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