letra de she from up the drombán hill - dystopian future movies
[verse 1]
it was the romance of it that she couldn’t get over
it would burn to an eventual ash
with the incessant drip of time
and the iridescent glow that he left after him
it followed him all the way down the lane
past the blackberry bushes, and the rustic gate her mother so carefully chipped and treated each summer
“it’ll only be a short time”, he said
earnestly, hopefully, but with warning
“short time i suppose”, she repeated, distracted
the wireless strains of evening news cut through her disbelief
“it won’t be long anyway, and i’ll write to you”
“there won’t be much difficulty with that”, i’d say
his words stung like the shock and embarrassment of an unsolicited slap
and insult beyond pardon
it’s just that she had plans, you see
it’s just that they were fully formed
had written themselves on that crisp parchment you’d see on a wedding day in the sacristy if she was helping mrs. brunlee with the bouquets
her plans were so solid that she had allowed them to be written in indelible ink with the flowered brazen letters of a comfortable learned woman, a competent speller
it was an especially chilly evening after his departure
a half-moon dripped icy on the corrugated iron of the sheds
the yard, the stillness
a shivering roof will mock it
you had your chance girl, and now it’s gone
“well who’ll take her off our hands now?”, he grunted
from his sunken breach beside the kitchen stove having overheard
and without looking up, tapped tobacco into the smoothly rendered pipe’s end from america by a deserting cousin
a peace offering
“ah he’ll come back”, she countered
her back to them both, stacking dishes dripping suds
“he’ll take her off our hands yet”
swift, dismissive, a man of few words lest they be incendiary or detracting
disappointment rose in her as determinedly as the light of hope she allowed to grow and preside over the past year
so it was best to retire
solitude held its lone itinerary, but at least it was self-made and in some way controllable
and they spoke as if she wasn’t there
but that was always the way
and she knew it best not to show emotion
weakness was oft wielded as a finely polished weapon in that house
and silence, sometimes too
[instrumental break]
[verse 2]
mainstreet harboured a darker hue that friday, market day
and most were hurrying with small carts or barrels to the square
head down and shawl wrapped tight, she focused on the job at hand
there was a stall to set up, produce to sell
she had heard the whispers before
seen faces turned in to seclude the words
but the eyes were a dead giveaway
“saoirse was always going to be short-lived, she from up the drombán hill, it was laughable really”, they’d say
her shame was as thick as the murky darkness through which she had tentatively trod each night to meet her
“you couldn’t make it up”, they’d say
“she fell for his hook, line, and sinker, poor old soul”
and she saw each beautifully hewn image of her future wash away
a thunderous downpour, concealed by an unfathomable sky, drowned her heart entirely
she would sometimes awaken at night
her organs twisted in a knot and rising into her throat
the dead air, a black hole, a vacuum she’d spin towards in dreams
[verse 3]
a merciful weightlessness
until her inevitable dawn descent
the rage began to house itself in her chest
sometimes a pounding protrusion
sometimes a dead weight that kept her silent and agreeable
sometimes a raw heat that rose in her at the most inopportune of times
a tumult of emotion, an emission of great sorrow and loneliness
“you couldn’t possibly have cleaned the whole shed out in that time” he declared
removing his boots with a number of thuds against the gable wall
cakes of mud slid down, a race to the gutter beneath
“you’ll have to be at it tomorrow again i suppose”
she turned away
more heartache after the sting of humiliation at the friday market
best to complete the request silently
allow the rage of unfairness to simmer gently
a devoted and constant companion
and in the end, it was a creeping knowing
the way a cumulative change so gradual
gently effervesces into the folds and fabric of each relentless day
the tiredness, an egg, the dragging hang
“plump around the gills”, the owl would say
watching her scrub between cracks in at the kitchen sink
the eternal growth of infectious mold
the creeping damp
the way it would infest and navigate a modest pattern until complete
on reflection, she hadn’t understood the awkward moonlit maneuvers of teenage chance that led to the changes
and perhaps, because of the unending housework and upkeep that summer
or the beady eyes that were trained with intense focus on her every move after the departure
it wasn’t long before the priest was called
there was nothing left now
the tattered plans in disarray
a confusion to replace the heartbreak of his leaving
and now she was left with something awful
inside the very hammer of her being
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