Monday, April 20, 2015


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THE FINAL WHISTLE


Ruddy face chastened by Northerly wind;
Wind that spurs army of woolly warriors to be led,
Led not pushed with gentle calm upwards;
Upwards towards the grassy level before the lake.
Lake where the lady lures men down, deep to love.
Love? The girl from the blue house, bottom of the boreen;
Boreen filled with the smell and white of Hawthorn;
Hawthorn, where he should have kissed Moll's full red lips.
Lips that kissed, then married his best friend Paddy; 
Paddy who left the Glen and farming to become a garda.
Garda uniform and he was handsome with a house as well.
Well for them now, with their two girls, and one boy
Boy, awkward, but won with a smile very same as his mother's. 
'Mother's getting too much these days,' and cap off, he scratches
Scratches a balding head bowed by hard work and despair;
Despair around decisions, and moments never seized.
Seized by a crushing pain in chest, he calls the final whistle.
Whistle, in his pocket pinned between his heart and rock;
Rock where Joe played many an air, and Shep his dog would sleep.
Sleep Joe, your turn now: Shep, your friend will guard your sheep. 



Maureen Walsh - April 2015



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I'M THINKING THE WORLD COULD DO WITH A GOOD SHEPHERD RIGHT NOW.....ONE THAT LEADS RATHER THAN PUSHES!


Ciao for now!

1 comment:

MIKE PETTIT said...

What an excellent poem , Maureen Walsh of Ireland.