Poem

History 

You speak of Auschwitz
I think of the night Dad died
In that cold cardiac bed.
You talk of Dallas November 1963
I think of Mum September 2008
And her blue-eyed passion for life.
You remember nine eleven in New York
I think of our Paul in the County Clare
Early that late June morning two years back
He the fiddling raconteur and catcher of the rat.

You tell me of kings and queens and presidents
And treaties and wars and inventions
And transient celebrities and I
I think of weddings and births and funerals
And New Years' parties and work and holidays
And grinning friends.

You show me pictures
Of assassinations in Vietnam
Of adventures in Afghanistan
Of a striking miner in a copper’s hat.
I think of photos
Of our son up a tree and things like that
Of our baby girl’s first steps
Of Shirley on our wedding day.

What can I say -

Yours is like a celluloid tale or
Something seen through a high street window
While mine courses through my veins
- Such things so close to my heart -
Yes yours is akin to fantasy or mystery
But mine, mine is the real history.