P.J.Bermingham

First published in Madrush 

Alzheimers  robs us of our loved ones, a little at a time, and still we can recognise what is left behind as the individual we have known and loved. . . .

Ageing solar flares,

rusting dark bullet holes, 

in a chamber piss pot

that is an alzhiemers riddled brain.

This mourning, 

washing hands and face,

fresh spring water memories, 

mixed with taste of toilet bowl.

In my father's wallet, there is a picture;

28 year old hurler, 

bow-tensed to strike,

flying head of blonde hair, 

Hermes' wings. New York 1962.

I asked, '’Do you know who that is?'

“Lovely, lovely,”— the fading, farewell response

©Niall OConnor    2014