Dead my father and not a decent poem written this year,
Dead my father and wolf-boy whistling by the dispense bar
his florid face brandied close to aneurism,
Dead my father and there’s snow on the hills
no threshing in the haggard or turf cut today,
Dead my father and the dancing girls’ step in, step out,
laughing at the stupidity of men,
Dead my father and opium no longer an option-

But in the deep of dark, where all the clocks are stopped
a nightingale opens his heart to sing.

Dead my mother and the neighbour’s thoughts all flying at half-mast,
Dead my mother, the blast radius of your childhood blowing past
mock-mullioned windows down respectable lanes to buckle the thresholds
of your children’s bones,
there’ll be no Ave’s tonight Maria, no sore knees or bruised tender breasts,
Dead my mother and light on water brings no joy
though a singing priest can cause a scarlet flush
to the well-reared daughters of working men,
Dead my mother and prayer no longer an option-

but in the deep of dark where all the clocks are stopped
a small bird tears her soft skin raw.

– Mick Corrigan