The Whitethorn Tree, by Nora McGillen

He was eighty years old before he spoke about it,
and when he did he wept,
the tears of the nine year old boy,
oozing uncontrollably down the stone of his face,
the burning salt of them,
a burst seal in the bog marsh of his soul.
That morning had never left him.
The small stony road that led to the school,
washed over by sea breezes,
the Montbretia lighting the road,
the shuddering of seagulls over his head.
The kind house on the bend,
where seven brothers lived,
who had often fed him.
The body hanging from the Whitethorn tree by the side of the house,
the weeping sap of blue lupins blooming,
he passed by quickly – he was never late for school.

The Photograph

This is my father in the picture.
I cannot remember him like this,
he is younger than me.
He is holding my eldest brother tightly,
he doesn't know he will lose him soon.
My brother does not look at the camera.
My mother holds me upright upon her knee,
a chubby toddler in ankle strapped shoes.
Her breath is upon my face, soothing as a sea breeze,
in vain she coaxes a smile from me.
She is full of joy.
My father's black wavy hair gleams.
He gazes confidently into the future,
I cannot warn him.
It is a summer's day and we sit on a garden seat.
Daisies are pushing their heads through wavering grass.
All through childhood this picture hung on the dining room wall,
as familiar to me as my own hands.
Now both the hands and the photograph make strange with me.

Nora McGillen has won Dún Laoghaire International Poetry, Allingham, Boyle Arts and National Women's Poetry prizes and was shortlisted for the Hennessy New Irish Writing Emerging Poetry award in 2014