irishwriter's Journal

It Doesn't go Away (clifden anthology) 

I used to have a brother

actually, I had four

Now with seven sisters

that number is no more

What heaviness of spirit

led Fintan to the stairs

The spiral catching late March sun

in dust-mote-swirling layers 

Did he hear the poetry of his soul? 

the ashes of his dreams?

Did he wonder if the rope would hold

the coming apart at the seams? 

Twelve of us together

first time in eleven years

One last time at a graveside

those were the easiest tears 

Expected recovery keeps us apart

locked deep in recesses of

the grieving heart 

Suicide. Fighting against the grain

Now as prevalent as weekend rain