Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

To my parents’ world he brought a little glamour
the ephemeral intimacy of overlapping holidays
strangers sharing the sardine proximity
permissible only at vacation time.

He was prominent in the country’s national sport
royalty
a place at the centre of court.
Television was still in diapers
the Internet yet to be conceived
the local newspaper gushed a story and photograph
of him and family enjoying the town’s hospitality.
My parents archived anecdotes
for replaying to friends and neighbours.

The judge said it was a very sad case
sentencing difficult
the circumstances complex
journeying from the hospital bed of a terminally ill son
a deceitful cocktail of prescription serenity and alcohol
misled his vehicle
down a one way ….. the wrong way.
The dead driver without chance or blame
the defendant’s life history exemplary. Remorse genuine.
Famous a decade ago
but now fame of a different sort
newspaper and television scrutiny
punishment enough.
No conviction.

My parents heaved relief
a good man they said.
Two years later the good man is pictured
at a reunion – glass prominent.
My mother flings her hand at the newspaper
“look at that, after what he did”
my father condemns, “I can’t believe it.”
His name is never spoken again.

For the back story click Backstage
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Ephemeral
a word no one would have used then
some things do not require definition
in order to be recognized.

Transient
temporary
fleeting
it was obvious to all.
Except the two principal actors – that took longer.

Wrapped in togetherness.
the magic and the magnetism
Everything is possible, no probable
brightness bends to winners.

There were dark times – too many
blame was a distant echo
caution, a refuge for losers
they were golden.

Now many years later
scatters of memory
brief acknowledgments.
Did it ever really happen?

For the back story click Backstage
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He was 19 when it began
working as a printer
playing sport on Wednesday half holiday
and again Saturday afternoon.
Doing the things 19-year-olds do
learning about cigarettes and beer
and discovering women liked him
he always admitted surprise to that.

Grandma said he only had to hear a ball bounce
and would rush to join in.
War
just another game
minus Queensberry rules
it would all be over by Christmas
a chance to go to England
perhaps stay on and tour the continent.

Ypres.
Somme.
Messines.
Passchendaele
as much him as the four yet to be born children.
Chlorine.
Typhoid.
Shrapnel
strained through mud into DNA.

Very few of his intake returned
the family never knew the percentage
or exactly how many death declined at the smorgasbord
“not many.” Two words. One answer. Zero addition.
“Not many.” Usually defined by single figures.

Death. Always on the take
even when the present is vacated to past
an absentee landlord extracting arrears.
It wasn’t the nightmares
they ceased after two decades
the lungs of barbed wire
bloody mindedness overcame that
or the loss of beloved sport
self-employment abducted any training time.
It was youth
dead and buried in Belgium’s fields.
He was old at 21.

For the back story click Backstage
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