All Roads Lead to Home: A Poetic Journey from the Emerald Isle to Canada

By Kathleen W. Forbes

Kathleen has discovered something magical in every province of this grand country, Canada. She sees the beauty in God’s gifts to us: the mountains, the valleys, the trees, and the rivers and lakes, which have all inspired her poetry. Most poems are spiritual, some are for children, and some are just plain silly. Come and journey through the hills of Ireland, the cities of Ontario, and the majestic mountains of British Columbia with Kathleen’s poetry. She hopes you find something to warm your heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Word Alive Press
• Release date: Apr 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9781486607921

Book preview

DREAM

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My sincere thanks to Barrie Maguire for giving his permission to use his beautiful painting, Brigid’s Cloak, for the cover of my book, All Roads Lead to Home. It portrays the beautiful countryside and the soft green fields of Ireland that I carried with me in my heart as a covering like a warm quilt.

I would like to thank Kerry Wilson, my editor, for her help and encouragement while working on this book. I knew by her comments that she loved the book. She also related to the Irish connection, which made me feel that she knew my heart.

SECOND WORLD WAR, 1939

I was nine years old when the Second World War broke out in Europe, and Hitler set his sights on conquering Great Britain, which included England, Northern Ireland, Scotland, and Wales. Germany was bombing London almost every night. Belfast, Northern Ireland, was just a hop, skip, and a jump across the Irish Sea, so we in Belfast took a tremendous shellacking as well. We were well trained at home and in the schools on what to do in the case of an air raid.

There were shelters on every street, and if we were unable to make it to a shelter, we were told to hide under the stairs, or under a table, and to never forget our gas masks. My baby sister’s gas mask was a little pink bunting bag with a Plexiglas window so she could see out and we could see in. She was too young to realize what was going on around her, and she looked so comfortable tucked inside.

Daddy had joined up again. He had fought in the First World War at the age of fifteen—a scared little boy with a bayonet in his hands, fighting hand to hand combat in the trenches in France. But now he was attached to the eighth army under General Montgomery, and would leave for Cairo as a missionary to the troops. He had the rank of Lieutenant, was addressed as Padre or Chaplain, and had the title of ASR. He was stationed in Londonderry for thirteen months before leaving for Africa.

One night in May, 1940, when Daddy was home on leave from Londonderry, the sirens went off. We dove for our hidey holes under the stairs and under the table, and though our house just had a few cracked windows from the blasts made by the bombs, the street behind us was not so fortunate. The whole block was completely wiped out.

The following day, my mother and father made the arrangements for us to be evacuated out of the city. Norah, my baby sister, was only five months old. I had just turned ten, and my brother, Gordon, was eight years old. We stayed with an elderly couple in Armagh for a few weeks, until my aunt was able to find us a little thatch roofed cottage in a village called Donaghcloney, which was where my mother was born. There wasn’t much room, but at least we were safe.

We could watch the search-lights in the sky, as we were only twenty miles from Belfast, and we could see the flashes in the distance when the bombs went off. We were never far from the war. In fact, a bomb was dropped just a mile up the road from where we lived. A cow died, and the barn was destroyed, but no human lives were lost.

My Grandfather, William John Castles, had owned a small jewellery store, and my Grandmother, Ellen Castles, had owned a grocery store in Donaghcloney when my mother was a little girl. The village had not changed in all that time, and it still looks much the same today. What follows is a poem I wrote about the war years.

World War Two Years

The sirens wailed, warning us to scamper,

Run and crawl into your hidey-holes,

Under the table or under the stairs,

To burrow in like little moles.

The searchlights scanned the midnight skies,

On watch, protecting our beautiful land.

The bombs were blasting really close by.

Would we die tonight by the enemy’s hand?

I had just turned ten, brother Gordon was eight,

And our baby sister just five months old.

Too young to die, we hadn’t yet lived,

But we knew the drill, and did as we were told.

Stay down, don’t move, and cover your head,

I could hear Daddy murmur as he prayed.

It’s the gas works they’re after, Mommy declared.

That was just one street over; we waited in dread.

When the All Clear sounded, we all heaved a sigh.

The blackout had saved our family again,

But the street behind us was completely demolished,

While we only suffered one broken window pane.

Next day, Mommy filled out the forms to evacuate,

Out of the city, to Donaghcloney’s country-side.

We moved very quickly to a little thatched cottage,

With trees all around, and no need to hide.

The trees were home to hundreds of crows,

So the row of five cottages was called Crow Gate.

Our aunts and cousins all lived close by,

And we waited patiently for the war to abate.

We were just twenty miles from Belfast city,

And each night we watched searchlights in the sky,

We could tell by the flashes when our troops hit a target,

And we still had the blackout, ‘cause the war was close by.

We discovered the crows had a routine each morning.

With the factory’s whistle, they flew off en masse.

We never found out where they went for those twelve hours,

But the evening whistle called them home. What a blast!

We swam in the Lagan, and played in the meadows,

No air raids, no bombings, the war seemed far away.

A unit of soldiers was stationed in the village;

We watched as they practiced their drill each day.

Just a mile up the road, a bomb hit a barn.

Killed a cow and some chickens, but no human life.

We thought that was funny, but it taught us a lesson,

We weren’t so far from the killing and strife.

Many times we would gather with our aunts and cousins,

And sing ‘round the fireplace, the old war songs.

Aunt Mary made tea, serving soda bread and biscuits.

All our daddies were overseas, righting the wrongs.

I was a singer, and when I was eleven,

I was asked to sing at Londonderry’s Guild Hall.

I sang The Holy City, the choir hummed in harmony.

The huge hall was packed, and I felt very small.

That same year my writing earned me a scholarship,

They said I was way ahead of my time,

And I started in Lurgan’s Institute of Technology,

And won a few accolades for writing in rhyme.

When the war was over, Daddy came home from Cairo.

That was the year I graduated from Tech.

My parents packed up, and we moved back to Belfast,

And I found a good job, with a nice paycheck.

I worked in head office of the co-op in Belfast,

‘Till Daddy decided we would leave Erin’s shore.

So we packed up again, said goodbye to our homeland,

And set sail for Canada, to a new home once more.

BEGGAR WOMAN

I write poetry about people I’ve known, places I’ve been, and events that have happened in my life. The following story is about a little old beggar woman who used to visit us at our little cottage about once a month. My mother usually gave her sixpence and would invite her in for tea and something to eat. In return, she gave Mom a short little ribbon, about four inches long and a quarter of an inch wide.

For your wee girl’s hair, she would say. God bless you and everybody in your grand house, Missus. Oh, if I only had a wee little house! Our little cottage was anything but grand. We had very little room, but the fireplace was wide, and it was quite cozy. Mary’s story made us feel very fortunate.

She told us she slept in the barns or ditches—any place she could find shelter. Mom told her that if she loved God, she would one day have a mansion in Heaven.

Oh, my lady, she said. What would the likes of me do with a mansion? All I want is a wee little house, with one room and a comfy old bed and chair. That would be Heaven to me!

One day it occurred to my Mom that Mary hadn’t been around for some months. We had no way to inquire about her, as she had no physical address. Mom said she must be sick, or perhaps she had passed away. That made me sad. She was a nice lady who had lost her way. I never forgot her, and so, several years later, I wrote the following poem about her.

The Old Beggar Woman

Wouldn’t it be grand indeed

To have a little house;

Just a wee cottage all m’ own

Set in the glades that I love to roam.

I’d burrow in like a little mouse

With a fire in the hearth;

Its embers glow

To break the chill

Of the winter’s snow,

And warm these old bones,

And the rest of me;

And I’d share m’ bread and jam and tea

With a friend who drops by.

Och ‘tis rich I’d be,

And I’d never grouse

If only I had a little house.

I wonder if God

In His palace of gold

Can see me here shivering

In the wind and cold.

If He sees the wee sparrow

Then what of me,

Whom the world passes by

In unfeeling apathy?

As I search for some kindling

Of brush and twigs

To build a small fire

Under this old bridge

To give this old body

A wee bit of heat,

And soothe the chilblains

In my frozen feet?

My cloak feels warm

And I doze and dream

Of a little wee house

So warm and clean.

Of a comfy old bed,

And a big stuffed chair,

And I’ll never again

Know dark despair.

I dream of the days

When life was good

When family mattered

And cared as they should.

How did it happen?

Where did they all go?

That I’m left all alone now,

In the wind and snow?

They say there’s a mansion

Just especially for me

In that land far beyond the sun.

And a robe of pure white

Will be mine, I’m told

When this old body

On earth is done.

And I’ll never be cold or hungry again,

When the angels take me home;

‘Cause Heaven’s the land

Of milk and honey,

And I won’t have to roam.

So each night I pray to God above,

That when the time comes to set me free,

He will give the mansions to the rich folk,

And save a wee little house just for me.

ONE FUNNY LITTLE CROW—BLACKIE