for mike nicholson,
died, Monday 14 September, 2015
The summer Mike Nicholson died
a sun shaken with memory burnt
all the bridges
and the ghosts ran free.
That same razor-sharp summer
the day of the hospital dawned
and all the kind words went dumb.
This summer all our sadnesses
came home to roost,
not a story was left by the open fire
and the cars on the Bray seafront stalled
and on Tivoli Road, and in Glasthule too.
Here is where youth and hope
all crumble to clay,
someone on a barstool said,
and all your dreams grow old and decay.
The summer that passed
we were young no more
not middle aged,
nor fated to grow old.
The crowds in our memories
slipped
one by one
out the open door,
down a country road
and without a laugh or a joke
the phone call came,
this solitary call saying
this is the end.
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