Róisín Dubh
Temperate morn, street of Queens, still air and silence broken, to Arran Quay, January’s ingress has spoken. An Life, the ice broken, the children fall. Sad Primrose no more. Tales from Grandad’s knee, stories of Capability…tall tales and all.
Erin lost, England found. Dark edifices loom large all around, grubby war weary streets lament the cost of victory. The new street, old and dirty. A familiar figure greets the family.
Blended fatigues, and yellow hair, battle scarred and kindly. A soldier’s gift, it’s Ruby. A chance visit to the fair. A friendly smile, a cheeky refrain, two hearts never to be the same. Lemon tea roses, sweet caress, white wedding dress.
In the kitchen, fizzy homemade lemonade, licking the spoon, apple pie and pastry strewn. Awoken soon from sleeping. Bingo gold in safe keeping. Porthcawl, Sharra-bang, off to the sand. Treco bay, cakes on display, Dirty Duck, surprize holiday.
In the same bed, yellow rose and red, ten years apart, January to April, together now with one shared heart.