For Andrew and Bridget.

 
He was tough like me,
the Celt in us running riot in our little world,
he ate hawthorn berries.
 
Your mother prayed for me,
when the lights nearly went out,
I got better,
she had a hurling team of a sausage and mash family.

I sang Oklahoma below your window,
when the sun was warm,
the blossom bright on the dark trees.
 
Your father read the comics we loved,
smoked an aromatic pipe
and you Seamus stayed with the green,
writing poems for those of us who didn't know the warmth of a peat fire,
but knew the worth of love.
 
You kept your heads down,
never talked of the troubles
and now they are doctors and headmasters;
the birds will be chattering on the telegraph wires,
an eagle will circle the old stones on the plain.
 
~