October is mild, the sun unexpected,
Shortening the hard winter for us,
Yet, your father in the yard,
With the homemade hatchet
Breaks pallets.
Hop, hop, hop out of the bed
And throw back the blankets,
You would always be afraid
The head would fly off of
The hatchet.
They walk to Mass.
He knows exactly how many miles
The church is from the house.
Sometimes they would chance
Between the showers…
But they give themselves a good
Half hour to get to Gortroe Cross.
What time is it cloud?
What time is it crow?
What time is it now cow?
Where does the time go…
And they are old…granted…
Who would have thought twelve daughters
Would not guarantee them wealth…
He is slow, slower than she is but
Everything he does is deliberate…
He carries a stick to beat off
The dogs at Jimmy’s gate…
His sombre clothes clash with
Flash October’s flair for death.
