First Mass
Author: Martin Power

First Mass
Author: Martin Power

Those frosty morns from long ago
When I'd go to serve first mass
Are as vivid in my memory
Though many years have passed.
I still can feel the bite of cold
When my feet would hit the floor
As I leave behind the warm bed
And the old post office coat.

And heavily buttered homemade bread
And sweetened cups of tea
Upon the kitchen table
Would be waiting there for me,
With my mother ever smiling
As she buttoned up my duffel coat
And sprinkled me with water
From the font beside the door.

I'd scare away the crafty crows
That were picking at the cream,
Then out the gate and down the street
As I'd hear the church bell ring.
The roofs are covered white with frost,
The morn is crisp and clear
As columns of smoke from early fires
Rise straight into the air.

I'd make my way down Pearse Road
And along the slippy path
I greet the early morning risers
On their way to work or mass.
A sweet smell from the sugar plant
Drifts across the morning air
As I hurry by the Croppy Graves
And on towards St. Clare's.

With my hands tucked deep inside my coat
And my chin tucked in as well
I hear the dogs along the Terrace
Howl in rhythm with the bell.
I hear the murmuring of the Rosary
As through the chapel door I pass
And I start to set the altar
In time for early mass.

In this poem Martin remembers some of the sounds, smells and sights of early winter mornings as he walked Graigue (cullen) to serve at first mass.