Saturday, March 14, 2015

Shirley.


Sitting in the garden,
love of sun persistent,
memories are teased out
in the warm lull of an autumn sun.

The thrill of a blackbird
shatters the ripened air,
stirs free a cloud of images
buried in the sediment of past lives,
until then, shallow oared past.

re-member it here, re-member it here,
re-member it real, or all will be lost.

Their garden started with potatoes,
then onions and  garlic,
his softened country hands passing
bulbs one by one, like father before him,
then on to their children,
and the children that followed.

remember it here, remember it here,
remember it real, or all will be lost .

Children played, capricious as a butterfly’s flight,
but where do they hide now? Where do they play?
Down by the apple tree, where the brambles grow,
Down there, where no one now goes

remember it here, remember it here,
remember it real, or all will be lost .

He died first when he left her.
He died second when he was stranger.
He died again and again
before passing away,
not even bothering to say a final good bye,
or wave farewell, on that dreadful day.

remember it here, remember it here,
remember it real, or all will be lost .

Now she sits with her memories,
in the failing autumn sun,
and it's only the shrill notes of a blackbird,
keep it all from being undone.

© niall oconnor 2015

2 comments:

  1. Replies
    1. Good morning and thank you Ron. You are up very early! Have you got a 'man-cave' in the new residence as well? Stay well. Niall

      Delete

Comments are welcome . . .