Cáithnín By James Ireland [One woman. Cold wind. Labhraíonn sí.] SÍ. It begins first dark earth land connected continent retreat ice and flood comes in, the climate is changing. Three thousand metre tall ice sheet wall rip through glen log, sliabh, carraig, sciúradh an tírdhreacha now gone. Across the sea we arrive. Some stay at coast. Water. Spray. Red sunset. They remember phosphorescence on seaweed and feeling you get when you’re out at sea at dawn and you’re the only person alive ever before or ever since. But what I remember is trees, scots pine, thinner on uplands so there we settle, clearing trees and smell of tree sap trunk cut firewood spit, in the morning tracks of wolves. Then one thousand years the soil is empty, we move off mountain we move inland, inland, and we clear trees too. Sphagnum moss grow over animalskin thatch huts we left behind. We repeat. We creep downwind when we hunt. We love and we cry in thunderstorms. I lay in the sun dreaming and a thin film is settling itself between me and my world. At some point I fall asleep. And when I wake up. City. Carbon-black turf-cut mountainside scar, metal glass sky-cut tarmac-sealed monstrous smoke scar ship container oil earth-blood, machine. Mountain dust water pump crust fracture net catch bottom trawl life screech, bigger, bigger, bigger, worse. Asphalt grass square manicure cut down nitrogen grow steal earth dig mineral burn, platinum war lithium conquer chlorpyrifos nitrogen soak grow and cut, grow and cut, grow and cut and shop deliver fly freight naphtha kerosene hydrocarbon burn now more ice melt so fume smoke more grow kill force feed take ask force pull tear build tear scratch scrape scour earth break still scrape force tear more. Sessile oak? Mac tíre? Neamhláithreacht. Somewhere on ocean, someone remembers a feeling. Dawn. Of no-one before and no-one since. Being only person in world. The feeling of iarmhaireacht creeping up. Somewhere someone else remembers sun on shoulderblades and dreaming, a scim descending on their eyes as they succumb to sleep. I, awake now on top of my mountain, I listen. [Cold wind.] Séideán gaoithe. When we were asleep we made planetwide world-poison. Crithir. Solid foundation whole earth shivering. Land almost gone. Planet almost gone. Our words almost. Thoughts gone. But. In gust of wind séideán gaoithe rush as something else from our-world-but-other-world passes by - there is still time to glimpse half-memory some miniscule spark last hope speck caught in corner of my eye. Cáithnín. Yes, cáithnín. A word for that now I remember it is cáithnín. My your world contains an other world and our atoms connect. Our atoms belong to each other. Today world-poison neamhláithreacht has inside beneath in the future of it another world. Cáithnín, séideán gaoithe, scim, son of the land are our word relics buried of time. Dig them out. Excavate. Find. Learn. And I can heal. Care. Share. Take sparsely. Séideán gaoithe gifts energy between world-poison now and future life. The sun gifts hydrogen helium shooting from space radiance electron heat, accept it. We do not take from sphagnum moss bratphortach, instead leave and grow, froach, bog orchid, fia, white tailed eagle, and sessile oak caorthann instead of spruce plantation dead harvest, bring corn bunting, mud pond snail, meadow saxifrage, wild boar, mac tíre. Turn grass square tarmac to birds-foot-trefoil, red clover, Devil’s-bit scabious, praiseach garbh, poipín, talamh móinéir. Turn tidal movement to electrons. To cáithnín. Catch them. Keep them. Use them. Listen to them. Work with them. Follow them. The climate is changing. Tá cneasú air. James Ireland is a gender nonconforming playwright/theatremaker. They recently graduated from the MA Writing programme at the RCA (London), where they researched actionable allyship in theatre producing. Previous work includes productions at The New Theatre and Smock Alley (Dublin), as well as The Arcola, Pleasance, and Theatre Deli (London). Instagram: @chickenfilletrollmemes www.jamesirelandplaywright.com
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