In Finnegan’s eyes you dare not see beyond what throbs in there
Nor when the Guinness lonely nights rent hugged hard fistful sheets

Thoughts as daggers wrench at his constant pain
Made worse by such short sentenced timeless loves
Stretched now into un-caressed oblivion
His heart still a numbness rage of hurting loss

Dear sweet Molly, his beautiful wife, bent to tie young Sean’s laces
That Belfast day and buttoned little Sarah’s coat.
That day just time ago when shopping
In the high streets crimsoned puddle ponds, flecked the acrid
smoke of hate

Another bomb set off from the lick of clickerty switch
By so-called ‘freedom men’, vengeful in their covert might
Glass from neon shop fronts in their twisting glimpsoled dance,
lanced the drizzled air.

In the secondless whoosh Moll nearly touched her Sarah’s hand
Before their world disploded.
Hardened soldiers sucked in breath to hold the tears down
As bits of innocents were gently collected to the ragged tarpaulin

Finnegan was a gentle man, he once believed in God.
Took the kids to Sunday school the week,
before they filled the yellow tagged bags.
“No, they weren’t hurt” he whispers to Scratchy the cat
Who pads his lap with unheard feline purrs.

“Dear God”, he says again, as oceans more stain
The crumpled photo in which Moll smiles.

This entry was posted in History, Poetry, Religion, War and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to CRY!

  1. J.G. says:

    Half-convinced and half-hearted at the beginning, by the end I was pulled in to your dark canvas.

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