The Deep End
WORDS &
MUSIC: Tim Dennehy.
FIDDLE: Nollaig Ní Chathasaigh
PIANO &
KEYBOARD: Garry O'Briain
I wrote 'The Deep End', when my two sons, Tadhg and Seán, were eight and four years old respectively. It quickly spread its wings to embrace the spirit of childhood everywhere and to celebrate children's innocence, freedom, creativity and unquestioning love.
Looking
now it's hard to see, those first few years dependency.
You blink to find that time has slipped away.
You laugh and cry and sleep some more, the first few steps to reach the
door
To freedom and the conquering of space.
Wake to screams at 2 a.m. 'Open the door it's me again
Body-warmth will make me reassured'.
The dawn chorus' loudest voice, arise, arise there is no choice
For daylight's much too short for wandering minds.
Fragile
as a buttercup, the pain in seeing you growing up
Leave innocence, simplicity behind.
Fionn MacCumhaill and Diarmuid dear,
Cuchulainn with his trusty spear
Are brushed aside by harsh reality.
Home
from school and free at last, script the play select the cast
Change the costumes twenty times or more.
Slay the dragon at the gate, cowboys and Indians locked in hate
'Til dinner time intrudes and calls a truce.
Letters of the alphabet, S for Séan your favourite
Write it on the sand 'til it's erased.
Tempt the tide to drown your feet, run and laughingly retreat
To build your castles, dreams and fantasies.
Fragile
as a buttercup, the pain in seeing you growing up
Leave innocence, simplicity behind.
The fearsome pirates now attack,
Blackbeard, Morgan, Calico Jack
Are brushed aside by harsh reality.
If
I was granted but one wish or clothed in the Midas touch
I'd knead your cheer to an immortal cake
So that sometimes when the spirits were low and the black dog pawed my very
soul
I'd bite and taste your innocence again
But seeing you now growing up, growing old,
You leave the warmth to face the cold
The tears well in my eyes I feel the pain
Yet my only simple prayer would be that when you're maybe thirty three
You'd take a child upon your knee and sing.
Fragile
as a buttercup, the pain in seeing you growing up
Leave innocence, simplicity behind.
Characters of fiction free
organised in lines of three
Are brushed aside by harsh reality
Brushed aside by harsh reality.