The Visiting Hours
I visited your grey face today.
by Seán O Muiríosa
Your not well, old friend, not well.
They say it’s spreading swiftly
Through your every curve and bend,
I examined you myself with cruel eyes
The world will never be able to mend.
You’ve changed all right.
What caused it?
All those years of over indulgence?
Should have seen it coming?
Though it was bound to build up
And up and up and out.
I fear for you dear, alone and isolated
Out here on the west.
I had to leave you then
Like they soon will.
They said you needed to rest.
Outside, just beyond your stare
Yellow and orange daffodils grew
And fluttered in the long grass.
They used to be your favourites.