A Saint Patrick’s Morning : A poem for a dear friend of mine

The sun rises and gives off a glorious red hue,
the splendor which bathes the promising east.
Saint Patrick’s Day slowly creeps to life
As Ireland prepares to celebrate his feast.
The nurse moves silently around his bed
checking the many drips on a listless arm
that once had the power and strength
to tackle the hardest chore on the farm


On a cold and bright Saint Patrick’s Day
this man nourishes no desire or aspirations
to share his nurses cheery vision of how
she will partake in the day’s celebrations
another pulls the curtains and sunlight arrives
without invite or welcome to his sunken eyes.
He can muster only a cough to register his protest
that goes unheard among the gossip and the lies


More voices now converse loudly about him
careless and abstract as though he was not there.
Isolated by plumy tones of rich medical jargon
his miscomprehension a comfort blanket threadbare.
Dignity leaves you without smile or wave in this place
and tranquility is not yet the expected welcome guest
that comforts you in this surrendering dimension
and accompanies you to your one last harvest


He speaks little now, perfunctory is more convenient
than to give stature to false and optimistic platitude.
His mind is floundering in a deep dark forest of recess,
searching for the distant sunny clearing of gratitude.
Failing, for he is proud, and noble were his ways.
Of fair dealings, no man with a lie can ever unravel.
Transparency was his castle built high on a hill.
Decency and honour the avenue covered in finest gravel.