poetry, trails of thought

Last day in #Belfast

It’s good to revisit – anywhere I mean; 

revisiting puts back into place 

the treacherous memories which hurl this disgrace

our sorry, worried and weirdsome ways.

And although I loved dear Karen as never I loved any soul before,

the wrong we were and did

made quite impossible the sought and hid

we tarried with;

and then it came my time again –

as foolish men are unwilling, silly, with sensible ken –

to confound and confuse 

the ruse of younger child:

her wildness and beauty meant so much more to me

the day we met and had such grand repast –

or was it only grand for me?

And so ever since, dearest Claire you know I’m sure

you’ve been

the very reason for all these rhymes which 

sit so still, like currents deep in streams of gold.

And if anyone could fairly rid me of the sad we had,

the family we goodbye bade,

at the abandonment your mother and I once committed mad,

then it did have, I guess, in poetic retrospect,

to be the sight of you that night of wonder 

in Dublin town, in Dublin town.

In Dublin town, that night.

And so now it is from other town, from Belfast brave and strong,

I leave again with empty hands;

no bands of marriage 

nor bonds of easy conversation.

And the pain of continuing silence does take

its toll, like road of unseen

destination.

How much?  What now?  When ever?  Why then?

And so the questions do proceed on their ever so wild tumbleforth; 

and so the answers stand outside my ken; here and now;

then and when.

And if you stood before me straight,

no rancour nor anger 

could I possible feel: 

only the curious, puzzled bemusement of a man

who will only ever love, 

never understand his women.

And if finally, in two hundred years or so,

my words to you, dear Claire, you know,

do end up collectable in winsome tome of 

strange times past, left solid behind – those 

rhyming couplets 

and monologues unheard like birds of briefly leaning flight, 

as record clear 

of my affection and real love

for the grandeur of your

voice and smile, 

and the iron will,

and the firmest of lives, striven truly tough,

oh, the stuff you have done …

… so just hear this now:

always loved by me you’ll find yourself;

always loved by me,

until my tomb.

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