A Man of Time
For the first time in his public life
He was late.
Well, the second time.
His mother laboured all her life since the death of the oak.
Apt name for a life dedicated to wood,
Remembering how he reposed in a creation worthy of his talents,
The father, the oak.
He was late.
The work of the mother not enough,
Now she laboured on the hospital bed,
Nine months, nine days and fourteen hours,
Even then he swore to never be late again.
Not like him to go against the grain,
That didn't last long.
A lifetime, an instant.
When he saw the light,
He knew he would be rebuked for his tardiness,
A baby and a man,
Being born,
Being interviewed. |
— Adrian Buckley
Editor’s Note:
Adrian Buckley is from Cork in Ireland, operating a small tourbusiness
called Emerald Tours around the city and in Kerry. For more
information: www.emeraldtours.ie. |
The Irish American Post is
pleased to review poetry submissions for potential publication. Please
email your work to Martin Russell, poetry editor, editor@irishamericanpost.com.
Or mail poems to:
Russell c/o The Post, 1815
W. Brown Deer Rd., Milwaukee, Wis. 53217.
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