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Death Makes Its Cruel Presence Felt

As death makes its cruel presence felt
We talk as numb of those who have gone…
We think of recent times now past…
Ponder… Yet another one…

These caverns in the earth we dig
For those we knew in which to sleep
We see too many for too many now…
Four foot wide and six foot deep…

They are not dead,these now dead poets
They are alive when their words are read…
When we remember fondly, stories tell
Of them who now are dead…

In our time we all will go…
But why must some go before their time…
No poets or philosophers have answered that yet…
We file out of church neath ringing bells chime…

Camillus Boland RIP. Late of the Tullamore Rhymers…

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