Cornelius
He would throw off his donkey jacket
and I would go and lie
wrapped in the rough dark flods
smudged with plaster dust and paint stains
I was two
he was fifty, just lost his wife
Years later, after the reconciliation
we painted my first house together
the walls were pale yellow
steeped in his stories of the old country
I was eighteen
he was retired, needed medication for his heart
When he died, a year after his second wife
we had to go and choos from his possesions
I took his frail paged prayer book
A tartan cashmere scarf and his old copper kettle
mary desmond