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Our country’s air is lost
Not to frost but to
Sickly shades of
Yellow, green, yellow-green,
And that of pale pea.
This son’s intrepid,
That one more tepid.
This son walks with Cain
When he is Abel.
That one works to live;
He waits at table.
Not known for his profundity
my dad observed:
it does you no harm to go to church
even if you don’t believe,
to get down on your knees
for a while
and consider your place in the universe.
Not known for his wit
my dad observed,
of drivers driving fast in fog:
they are going on faith, hope,
and no clarity.
I explained the situation clearly to him
and he hit me in the jaw.
“Congratulations!
you have affirmed your masculinity!
I love what you’ve done with your life,
and to be honest I am jealous.
May you slip through your arsehole and break your fucking neck.”
There are great gaps in his memory.
Some caused by age and the deluge of booze, to be sure.
Others by repression or indifference.
Some of these gaps can be filled by prompting,
especially those times when he viewed the world like a movie camera,
always expecting the film to run out,
not caring.
He would still walk and talk,
see, hear and do,
it made no difference if it was being recorded.
Its a bad dream.
Then she awakens, with a scream.
The night is still dark.
Ice covered gates in the park.
She lies, silently chilling.
If only she was a state of a mind, to be willing.
Then at home she would be in front of the fire.
But its her way of dealing with a liar.
Her way of saying.
I don’t need you husband
Quivering voice displaying.
Therefore why she is in this parkland.
Sounds in the night make her tense.
The night magnifies them and makes them immense.
I’m old now and nearly going blind.
Little to late to be kind.
My floppy ears, are moth eaten, and rough.
You could say about life, I’ve just about had enough.
My coat is ragged and full of fleas.
To old to chase other dogs, that bite and tease.
Paws are worn, not like I can buy a new pair of shoes.
I get confused so easy, and sometimes I need clues.
Tail is scraggy and not much hair.
No good for wagging, its really un fair.
Walking for me, is now painfully slow.
She stands upon the threshold.
As a girl, coming to womanhood.
In the bottom drawer go the memories
Of childhood that she once knew.
Put away, are her pretty dresses.
She will no longer need them anymore .
Plain clothes, are now what impresses.
Young men knocking upon her door.
The Fairies live beside the grotto, at the bottom of the garden.
At the back of the house, owned by the ancient Scotsman.
Each day he takes them little gifts, wrapped in the finest silk ribbon.
And the nymphs reward the ancient Scotsman, looking after his many sons.
He has more than twenty sons this is his claim to fame.
And all are like peas in a pod and each have a similar name.
Mac Tavish, Mac Moniggle, Mac Gurk, this is to name but a few.
All are very good-looking, except the one that’s called Mc Pugh.