Wednesday, March 20, 2013



Ashes of Mandolin and Petty's lanyard,
Out of place bonfire in tiny backyard.
A log is pulled over to look 'cross the fence,
Burning his things just doesn't make sense.
Standing in silence, transfixed by the flames
His wife and his firstborn, known to see, with no names.
'So his sea-faring days are finally over....
So too, his song of the Wild Irish Rover....'
No more babies to swell, no more soap in the drawer
No more listening to groaning from the bedroom, next door.
His sojourns intruded in a life, segregated:
In the heart of the oldest, war hero was hated.
Routine was upset, by this man; by this stranger,
Put first by her mother, the man seemed to change her.
He'd yell for a whiskey; wake the babies with a shout
Then a smile would crease his face, as the Mandolin came out.
Happy? Yes it seemed, it was all about him,
While faces on the stairs were both fixed and grim.
Morning came for leaving, the sun was high and hot
Mother walked beside him, brood behind, kept up by trot.
Hurried hugs, pecks on cheeks, pristine uniform on train
Flu not bullet struck him down; living.... never seen again.
His name is etched in gold now, on a monument to war
And to those who died in service, just beside the library door

Ashes of Mandolin and Petty's lanyard
Out of place bonfire in tiny backyard.

Maureen Walsh  -  March 2013

File:Girl with a Mandolin.jpg

Ciao for now


Anonymous said...

Fab Maureen - really enjoyed this! xx

Emma said...