They became unwilling sailors first and then, submariners,
These farmers and shopkeepers, their children, servants, wives,
All suddenly captives of the ocean, all lost in chains,
Buried beneath the sky, the sea, until the murky earth
Reclaimed them and grew fossils in a rib-shaped cage
Of rotting wood and iron and torn sails. They slept for centuries
Like fishermen decaying in too far-flung, careless nets,
Caught up by ankle or by throat, the salt upon them a preservative
So that today we find them, like the next page in a book-
-turned over in astonishment, a copperplate illusion
Of some smothered truth, mute heralds of the future
From a dim-lit past, such buried kisses, fuel for a candle flame
That flickers in the empty dark we rummage in for energy,
Like a faint light at the back of the deepest cave.
If they could speak, these souls might sing in unison:
Forget us at your peril, we are the last of the bravado
We are what remains, and if you hold a hand to us
We’ll surely burn you,
one,
by one,
by name.
© Helena Nolan
Ancient remains found in Dublin
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Helena's work has appeared in anthologies and literary magazines including; The Stinging Fly, The Moth, and the Spoken Ink audio website. Last year she was runner-up in the Patrick Kavanagh Award.
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Editor's note: Each day, we move about the land, but how often are we conscious of the layered history beneath our feet?
