Patrick Poem by bryan wallace

A small wooden cross, marks the spot,
Meek and modest, like yourself.
I stand at the foot of your grave,
But I don't see you buried in this hole
In the stony grey soil of a Monaghan graveyard.

I've never been to Inniskeen before,
Yet as I stand and look all around me -
Across St. Mary's church spire -
Across towards Armagh, Dundalk, Carrickmacross and Shancoduff;
I feel a sense of familiarity -
From reading your poems, I guess!

I see potato fields there as I look towards Dundalk,
I can almost see you there,
On a hot summer's day -
In the shadow of an orchard wall,
Mixing the bluestone and lime solution.
Tramping many weary miles through drills of white Aran Banner blossoms,
Carrying the heavy knapsack sprayer on your back -
Continuing your fight against the dreaded black blight.
And all the while taking notes through a poet's eye.

We had driven past your house earlier,
I could see you there - just six Christmases of age,
On one frosty Christmas morning.
Marking notches on the doorpost with your new penknife,
Or playing on the frosted side of the potato pit,
How wonderful, how wonderful!
Your dad sitting on the doorstep playing the melodeon,
You joining in by putting your ear to the paling post,
And strumming the barbed wire fence.

Or sitting in the hedgerow,
On a dusty roadside one evening in July -
Watching your neighbours cycle past,
Making their way to Billy Brennan's Barn Dance.
You feeling left out and alone as you sat,
Lost in a typical poet's lonely contemplation.
But you were the King and government,
Of all that you saw before you.

As I walk through this small Monaghan village,
I ponder that you must have walked,
This street hundreds of times -
On your way to morning Mass at St. Mary's;
Or possibly to the pub!

Your voice and footsteps still echo here in Inniskeen,
As they do through the streets of Dublin,
And along the dark, stagnant waters of the Royal Canal -
Where you walked, sat and thought in your twilight years.
To further your writing career, you had felt the need,
To leave the dark drumlin clay of your native Monaghan,
For what you were to later call dark, malignant Dublin.

I may be able to walk the roads that you walked.
I may see the views that you've seen.
I may drink whiskey in the pubs where you've been.
But I lack the talent and vision,
To follow your footsteps.