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Dublin Diary: Jonathan Knott

River Watching the Mighty Boinne

Sitting on the bridge at Bru’na Boinne
legs dangling over the river
cane in lap and arms hooked in wooden trestles
I inhale … and watch.

There is history here.
The ancients built the Neolithic structure
on the hill to my left, a monument to the sun
and to rebirth at winter solstice.

They are long gone.
Fionn mac Cumhail was said to have captured
braden feasa, the mythic salmon of knowledge
not far from here, though it would seem

he didn’t share the results with others.
William of Orange’s Ulstermen set King James’
peasant army to the run on these banks
in 1690, settling the Protestant vs. Catholic issue

once and for all, ha ha.
But this place will have peace.
The only man near me is an elderly one
in rubber waders at the edge of the marsh

a furlong downstream, walking his questing
retriever perhaps in lazy pursuit of the elusive
Irish Hare. The only sound is the clean breeze
of County Meath whispering along the sun-dappled

surface as, just beneath the silt, winnows can be seen
through yellow-green reeds: sylph-like maidens
in the gentle current. I close my eyes, breathe deeply
and focus on the flash of a young and likely trout

as I ease my legs off the edge of the bridge
and slip into this languid length
of the mighty Boinne
to join their dance.