In memory of Eugene
A NATIVE of Sligo living in France, I could not help but write these few lines in memory of Eugene Gillespie.
Unable to be present to participate in his mourning, I tried to capture some of the emotion from afar through the following poem. Grey Oh grey , grey, there's nothing left but grey Mists lingering, clinging to old Knocknarea. Tears trickling from her Majesties' grave For none of her warriors were there to save. Red stones of anger tumble down the hill Toppling their way, splashing down in Lough Gill. Unlike Conor, son of Ness, no one seeks revenge Nor even another Christie from John Millington Synge. There is an alien pain so hard to withstand Since the devil came to strike, his sword in hand. Your soul he tried to blighten but never did succeed With nothing left to plunder he left you there to bleed. The choir's hushed melody fills old Market Street The house with brown door is where we will meet. Some will play fiddles and some may dance a jig Below the rain spattered sign of Mac Giolla Easpuig. Life resumes its journey like the briskly stream But who can resist re curling back into his dream? With Yeats, his finger pointing "Can you all not see? That Eugene has just risen and gone to Inisfree" Yours, Gerard Gillespie.