Tuesday 29 December 2020

Billy

Of the seven-side
he's the one that I can set
in my mind as a child:
In short pants with pockets,
and a grin for every dawn,
a pride for all things moral,
a path-clearer for all,
especially the younger;
willing what he was refused
at those ages
on the nieces and nephews
and his next generations.

The roguery was never side-lined,
but duty was his first reserve.
He felt indulged by good times
though he and Teresa deserved
every good.
Billy McCarthy was a man of letters,
a writer of poems, songs, books.
We couldn't have asked for better.

He sang in every new year,
he spoke in prose and toasts,
and took the night in hand.
So, when the new year appears
be assured that he remains in his role,
that post is still manned.

(Explanation: On 29/11/2020 my uncle, Billy McCarthy, passed away. He was 79 years old. He was extremely good to me and I'm certain the other 30-odd nieces and nephews would say the same.
Without making less of the tremendous loss it was for his wife, his children and their spouses, and his grandchildren it was a tough one to go through for me while we were county-bound. I'm only over the border from the family so I think it must have been harder again 
for my cousins in the UK and Australia. RIP Billy, 1941-2020).

Tuesday 1 December 2020

Turn

Inside the line,
and the Ballade Pour Adeline.
Keeping time,
left hand for the melody.
Working week,
night times booked for ever.
Sun-roofed Fiesta Ghia
regardless of the weather.
Months in Melbourne,
Lebanese pizza.
Turn, turn, turn,
milk of magnesia.
Right hand off by heart,
steady on the pedal.
Begin again, another start,
a single cup and kettle.
Salmon cakes and dauphinoise,
sean-nós dance.
Piano Paul in Shamrock Lawn,
smoking ban.
Moving to a different key,
a semiquaver rest.
The Ballade Pour Adeline,
game and set.