Poem for Today

Why . . .?

Can you hear the sounds of children

playing in the street?

Can you hear the sounds of laughter

and the scurrying of feet?

Tell me, Mother Patrick, can you hear

the LOUD VOICE OF THE DEVIL?

Do you recall my writing and my reading,

my counting, my spelling, and lastly my bleeding?

I thought that the bullets were only a game —

‘though I cried when my little black dog got the same —

and I never believed that one bore my name.

I’m not scared, Mother Patrick, here on your bed,

with the marks of the war scarring my head;

hold my hand, Mother Patrick, until I am dead.

It’s a lot to bear for a child, just turned eight,

no more swinging and playing with the old wooden gate,

no more living in a world that filled up with hate!

All of the people playing with bombs,

Blowing up houses where I live in the Falls:

grey-slated roofs tumbling down past the walls.

Hold me close, Mother Patrick, I hear a voice calling,

softly and gently, whispering my name;

‘Tis a fearful thing, this pain with the dying,

Mother Patrick, I beg you, please stop your crying,

always remember, I was brave to the end;

let my enemies know — I was really their friend.

For what can we say, when all’s said and done,

Apart from ’I’m sorry . . .’ — for no-one has won.

© 1975 : C Gordon-Farleigh