The road to Cork Part 1 – Denial



The petrol gauge

ticks slowly

towards empty.

In solemn stately lines

we snake the back roads

and ways to Cork;

the weight of our

sadness draining fuel.


Your Mam ahead,

laid  in the  kind of basket

‘She would have liked,’

the sun thirsty buttercups

and daisies hand tied.


And in the back, the girls,

solemn and sadly silent;

still afraid the tremor

of a whispered word might

snap a fragile chord,

drain the tank,

bring on the unbearable,

unspoken thought.


I take a breath.

‘We need to stop,

fill up, pull off.’

You nod at the needle;

a fluttered wing on red,

then shake your head.

‘We can’t,’ you say.

‘My Dad.’

and grimly stare ahead.


And somehow on some

motorway that links

somewhere here

to some place there,

the truth kicks thickly

through the grief.

‘No car can run on air.’


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