A GHAOTH ANEAS!
( O SOUTH WIND! )

my six year old father
stares from
a photograph

splendid
in his sailor suit
standing outside time

he will
not survive
Ypres

there is no photograph
to show
him as a soldier

mother couldn't
bear them
burned them

she forever talking to
him in her head loving
loving his Devonshire accent

a thrush is singing
from behind
enemy lines

Spring can't understand
humans and their ways
dresses the trees

in their freshest green.
"Jack...Jack Jack!" she cries
to the wind from the south.

A Ghaoth Aneas!
( O South Wind )
"Sin chugaibh mo phóg

ar rith ins an ród
Leigim
le seol gaoithe í" *

"here goes my kiss to you
to you rushing along the road
I send it on the wings of the wind"