The Brothers’ Grief

Warm June-bug afternoons turn to fire-fly hour,
As Old Louie strums to the wind.
And Billy pulls the melody –
The smoke and ash of the hearth, in direct contrast,
to that icy abyss where the Wools now float, suspended by the great weight of a national injustice.
A moment of silence –
Then the hen call brings them back to summer. To the wine and plenty of feast,
And the promise of Tomorrow –
For the sea does not return its captors,
Or reveal its secrets, thus,
They must not also be dragged, nor weighted –
By the calamity

The setting sun lights the boughs of the sturdy oaks,
Bringing back heat, light and life,
Causing water to bead on the exterior of the glasses,
And as it drips slowly, it is at once embraced and consumed, by the quilted blanket below.
A blanket that sits upon the land of their forefathers,
Such a pity that the Wools could not have been buried beside them –
Louie still dreams of ripping them from their watery grave to be buried in consecrated ground – that of his ancestors.
The soil that shoulders under his shoe,
All he has eaten has emerged from it, at his own hand,
And in time, when the song comes to an end, and the sun has set,
He too will retire to the soil,
Alongside his brother –
Brothers in arms, and in grief –
That of Titanic proportions...