- Vol. 02
- Chapter 12
EchoesI sit in your chair, wait for the echoes,
tales born of the pub, off small country roads
where you took no heed for the season’s clothes,
out walking as grey-filled heaven unloads.
‘I need to get wet to get wet,’ you’d say,
knowing it wasn’t rain that fell into
your cup: the beer: the whisky: sour bouquet
of hops and dregs, of congealed Irish stew.
When I was a crutch back to your doorstep,
the four walls told me how you had suffered,
but I was too young and too mute to help,
your red face shut me up: nothing offered.
We never talked together, never drank,
now I hear nothing, this old room a blank.