Monday, 3 April 2017
poetry 2017 / 040
his bodhran in his right hand
tipper in the left;
his foot tapping the rhythm of a reel
as poplar flies against the the leather
of an old Irish greyhound.
He looks away to his left,
over a pint of Guinness
catching the eye of a familiar face
across a crowded, smoky pub.
It was the early nineties and you didn't smoke,
though you lived for the craic
of an Irish session in the bar,
guitar behind your chair
and a pennywhistle in your boot.
You never guessed that throat cancer
would end your life before you were forty.
I can barely remember your two wee lads
or your crescent moon wife who sang at my wedding
but I remember you well, dear son,
and the love that shone like candlelight
on everyone you met.