Scéal Tuain

Fadó, fadó, the fir bolg, the first people in our land had a king called Tuan. When the Tuatha dé danann came and ousted the fir bolg, Tuan did not die. Instead he took the form of an eagle and promised to take care of the people of this land forever. He is still there, as a stag, a robin, a fox, watching over us. And so we believe it is with Tuan, we believe that he will look after his brother and help him to grow big and strong. We imagine him taking the form of a swan, swimming in our rivers, flying over the plains and mountains, and watching his brother, Rián.

Eitil a linbh, ar nós eala….

Smaointe

We prayed for the gift of life, of parenthood to be granted to us. Imagine the joy when we discovered that we would bring two lives into the world. For seven months we experienced the joy of having twins. We dreamed and laughed about what they might get up to together. But Tuan was not to be of this world. We will always cherish the time we got to spend with him. We will never forget him. We will love him forever…

We will remember Tuan as the little gift, the little angel that came to live with us for seven months.

Sharon & Ruairí

xxx (agus Rián)

This is a poem we found a while ago in the Aer Lingus magazine, Cara, which epitomises the dreams we had for our sons…

Who knows what records you may break
Or what goals the world will set you,
But there’s no voyage you’ll undertake
With a purpose so clear and absolute
As this search in the December twilight
For the sparkle of lit trees in windows.

How many shall I count, walking tonight,
Wrapped up for the cold with my boys?
Breaking our record of two hundred and six
Leaves neither of you satisfied,
Knowing there must be one last cul-de-sac
Whose array has not yet been spied.

Cities won’t always have seasons like this:
Chestnuts like manna in the autumn grass,
Blackberries growing wild in the colleges,
And candles in windows on the wintry dark.
You will grow older, losing your innocence,
And, with luck, eventually gaining it back.

But may you never lose the sense of resolve
With which you both grip my hand
Beneath a skyline of stars foretelling frost,
And leaf me around a penultimate bend
Onto a street alive with leaping sword-fish
And acrobats from the fantastical land

Which spills over from your imagination.
There, amid the constellations of Drumcondra,
You eventually reach the magical number 
Which, by unspoken consent, allows us to turn,
Astronomers, explorers returning from afar
To glimpse the final lit window which is home.