Kernow
Cheerful smiles
his bodhran in his
right hand
tipper in the left;
his foot tapping the
rhythm of a reel
as poplar flies against
the the leather
of an old Irish
greyhound.
He looks away to his
left,
over a pint of Guinness
catching the eye of a
familiar face
across a crowded, smoky
pub.
It was the early
nineties and you didn't smoke,
though you lived for
the craic
of an Irish session in
the bar,
guitar behind your
chair
and a pennywhistle in
your boot.
You never guessed that
throat cancer
would end your life
before you were forty.
I can barely remember
your two wee lads
or your crescent moon
wife who sang at my wedding
but I remember you
well, dear son,
and the love that shone
like candlelight
on everyone you met.
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