loss

In my dreams, I see them all,
the ones who let you slip away.

The neighbour who laced the earth with death,
letting you lap up that toxic mess,
your little body wracked with pain,
stumbling, lost, into the street,
only feet from your own front door,
Perhaps they didn’t want to pay for a professional.

The driver who did not apply the brakes,
who felt the bump and carried on,
leaving you alone, afraid,
dying on the roadside,
Only feet from the safety of your home.
Perhaps they wanted to get home to the football.

Every day, as we drive past the quiet streets,
I scan the pavements, the hollow kerbs,
hoping to glimpse a flicker of fur,
a little shadow waiting by the roadside.
My head knows I won’t find you there,
but my heart still holds on to hope.

Every evening, stepping from the bus,
I turn my gaze to the ginnel’s glow,
orange streetlights casting ghosts on the stones,
hoping to see a little shadow bounding from the dark.
My head knows I won’t find you there,
but my heart still holds on to hope.

Mary,
a name that still lingers on the breeze,
like the soft rustle of autumn leaves
falling where the birds fly free.

I didn’t know you long,
but in that time,
you became more than a friend—
more than a passing figure
in a fleeting chapter of my life.
You became a grandmother,
and I loved you as such.

Under God's eyes they were bound as one,
Bell and Beaupré,
his beloved Dorothie,
a shining light in his heart.

So inspired by love was he
that he made her a window,
sunlight illuminating the stained glass,
colours dancing across stone halls.

The window, a display of their love,
their names joined in eternal embrace,
a love as fierce
as the fever that took him.

Upon the bridge where swords met steel and fate,
In Finea’s mist, where river waters weep,
There stood a man, a prince in name and soul,
Myles O’Reilly, Slasher of the foe.

Descended from the kings of old Breifne,
A chieftain’s blood ran strong within his veins,
With Ireland’s pride aflame within his heart,
He dared to stand, though England pressed him low.

They called him but a man, yet giants fell,
The Scottish beast cut down with but one stroke.
His blade, a flash of vengeance in the dusk,
An iron whisper sung in rebel hands.

Did you forget about me?
Because the phone never rings,
No words, no care, no space for me,
Just because I cut my strings.

Did you forget about me?
Love? Oh, that’s just a line,
Because if you’re poor, or different.
Then you’re ignored and left behind.

Did you forget about me
‘Cause in your eyes, I’m a mess?
A misfit in your perfect show,
Yes, I’m a failure, I confess.

Did you forget about me?
When you cut me, no second chance.
Is it because I dared to criticise,
And wouldn’t take part in your dance?

In my dream, I fell through the floor,
Whispers of a father I can’t ignore.
His hands were warm, but his eyes were cold,
Behind that mask, a truth untold.

I reached for him, but he slipped away,
A shadow where his love should stay.
A laugh that shattered, sharp and cruel,
The mask of love, a twisted fool.

Am I alive, or just a ghost he made?
I can’t recall the promises he betrayed.
All that’s left is the hollow air,
But the mask? Oh, it lingers there.

Such a short time we had together,
Before death took you in his warm embrace.
Now I am here without you,
Beside me, an empty space.
I hope what they say is true,
That you are in a better place.

Death kissed my lips and took my hand,
Guiding me through a world so strange,
Where we never parted, never knew the pain,
Where love was never lost, never estranged.

What joy we’d have known, what life we’d have lived,
If only you had not gone away.
I would have held you close, forever near,
In a world untouched by cold decay.

But death’s embrace is all I was granted,
A walk with him, through memories undaunted,
Where you and I remain unbroken,
In the shadows of what might have been.

I dreamt of him beneath the silver moon,
his porcelain face cracked deep with golden light.
He looked at me with sorrow-laden eyes,
and I, entranced, returned his mournful gaze.

Between us stretched a silence, vast and cold,
yet in the hush, I knew he called to me.
He raised a fragile hand, so pale, so still.
I reached to meet him, fingertips outstretched.