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After death of a spouse, Aging, Being a Widow, Bellaghy, Castledawson, Death and dying, Dennis O'Driscoll, Derry, Dispatch from the Diaspora, FInal wishes, Funeral, Grieving, Keeping Going, Loss, Love, Memoir, Milestones, Mourning, Northern Ireland, Northern Ireland Culture, Postscript, Rituals, Seamus Heaney
Epitaph . . . for your birthday
Epitaphby Merrit Malloy When I dieGive what’s left of me awayTo childrenAnd old men that wait to die.And if you need to cry,Cry for your brotherWalking the street beside you.And when you need me,Put your armsAround anyoneAnd give themWhat you need to give to me. I want to leave you something,Something betterThan wordsOr sounds. Look for meIn the people I’ve…
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After death of a spouse, Aging, Being a Widow, Bellaghy, Castledawson, Death and dying, Dennis O'Driscoll, Derry, Dispatch from the Diaspora, FInal wishes, Funeral, Grieving, Keeping Going, Loss, Love, Memoir, Milestones, Mourning, Northern Ireland, Northern Ireland Culture, Postscript, Rituals, Seamus Heaney
Walking on air . . . for your birthday
The girl with her head in the clouds should never have doubted the man who kept her feet on the ground too. Not for a second. All that's left of him now is love - to give away. I am walking on air.
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Covid-19, Death and dying, Dispatch from the Diaspora, Funeral, Rituals, saying goodbye, Seamus Heaney, Seamus Heaney
Ireland, I’m sorry for your trouble . . .
. . .feelthe strumming, rooted, long-tailed pull of grief.You were born fit for it.Stand in here in front of meand take the strain. From A Kite for Michael and Christopher by Seamus Heaney My mother tells me she and my dad were able to attend Palm Sunday services on Sunday,virtually, on the iPad I gave her a few years ago. It took a wee while to get the hang of it, she…
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Barney Devlin RIP, Death and dying, Dispatch from the Diaspora, FInal wishes, Funeral, Grieving, Northern Ireland Culture, Seamus Heaney, Seamus Heaney, The Forge
A Moment of Silence for Barney Devlin
“The Forge” by Seamus Heaney (1969) All I know is a door into the dark. Outside, old axles and iron hoops rusting; Inside, the hammered anvil’s short-pitched ring, The unpredictable fantail of sparks Or hiss when a new shoe toughens in water. The anvil must be somewhere in the centre, Horned as a unicorn, at one end and square, Set…
