The road to Cork Part 2 – the grief

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Exit ahead.

 

‘We’ll just pull off,

make our own way.’

We’ve got no choice.’

Your voice betrays

the horror of the fear

of your shoulder

absent from the weight

a pall bearer should bear.

 

I grasp the careful

hand drawn map and try to

shield our sorry state

from locals keen to

play a part,

and linger longer

in this sombre

final act of fate.

 

‘Can we have one, Dad?’

 

Absurd and all too real,

the whippy cone and

cheerful taunting tune

shrink any shred of faith;

the strangers fallen face,

your desperate rage, regret

and fall from grace to

lose ourselves again on

soulless, nameless ways.

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