Monday, November 28, 2011



I drove past you twice today
And wondered where the guardians of your soul;
The keepers of your pinkness
Have escaped to....
And how....?
And why....?

I missed your pink twice today
And wondered where the artists of your birth;
The authors of your story
Are cindered then....?
And if....?
And when....?

I sighed for you twice today
And wondered where the painters of your time;
The watchers of your heartbeat
Now buried in....?
And so....?
And but....?

I questioned you twice today
And wondered where the carers of your spirit;
The lovers of your pinkness
What home boxed in....?
And where....?
And.... OH....!

Maureen Walsh - November 2011

There is a pink wall in Monard, that I have driven past many, many times on my way to Limerick over the last 36 years. Earlier today, I dropped my daughter over to Shannon Airport to catch an early morning flight back to London and found myself wondering why this wall belonging to a pink house, that had once been so lovingly 'pinked' for as long as I have lived in Ireland, was now 'greened' with damp and flaking from neglect. Many's the time, I spotted the man of the house, complete with broad-brimmed hat and braces, with a brush in his hand and a tin of of pink paint at his feet. The shades and hues might have varied from summer to summer, but the wall was always PINK, which brought a sense of joy, fun, and yet at the same time; a sense of continuity.

Today, as I despaired at the wall's neglect, (avoidable or otherwise) I found myself wondering what had happened to the man with the braces and broad-brimmed hat and his good lady wife.

When I go home to my native town, Crewe, I sometimes find myself, perhaps stupidly, pining for the old shops and streets of my childhood, that have been anihilated and replaced with shopping malls, offices or factories.

There is however, a certain amount of comfort in travelling to say a small town like Fethard in Co. Tipperary, where several old shopfronts have been maintained in all their glory.

Nothing lasts for ever, but for some reason that thought saddens me. If Sigmund Freud were still alive, he might suggest, that my sadness signifies a sub-conscious fear of being forgotten when dead and buried. Hope that doesn't mean I'm guilty of narcissism!!! Ah well....sometimes the truth hurts I guess!

Ciao for now!

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