Patience

Patience and the Prodigal discovered the wonderful world of 'Blogging' exactly one year ago and it has made a tremendous difference to our lives. It has provided us with a whole new 'Circle of Friends, and has provided us with an invaluable contact with kindred poetic spirits all over the world. We wish to thank all of our followers, in particular"Turquoise" and "Mad Maddie" who have been a constant source of encouragement. To commemorate this eventful year we are re-posting our very first blog entry"Patience". Thank you all so much. P+P.

Patience.

My mother, Grace, a virtuous woman,

Baptised me Patience, why?

At that small church in Belleek,

An only child, I tried my best to die.

I was born at dead of winter night

Seven degrees below.

At time of frost and thaw

At time of haw and sloe.

My father decreed I was half a child

Only twenty six parts,

From a pack of fifty two

No clubs or diamonds; just spades and hearts.

He was a porcelain potter

Fingers of slurry and Slip,

North and south, connecting bridge

He crossed on path to toil and trip.

Twin babes were given me by God

Joy and David their given names,

Twice the blessings, twice the sorrow,

Twice the beaded counting frames.

David joined the RAF

With braid and buttons, shiny peak,

He saw the war in Afghanistan,

Never more his own Belleek.

And Joy lives in Australia now

In house of wood near Botany Bay

In prison of her own I fear

No knowing if its night or day.

Himself is long time gone to God

Or so I must believe,

I found it in me to forgive

Hadn’t the heart to grieve.

The corner shops are closing down

Courtesy of corporates and banks,

Post office counters, silent, bare,

And for this we must give thanks?

The pews are empty, whorehouse full,

No working sweat on factory brow,

Gone the linen, gone the wool,

The shirts are jobs in China now.

I often cursed the local pubs

Their hollow laughter left us poor,

They too are relics of the past

No polished counters anymore.

Our games have lost their men and boys

Traditions die and standards fall

The future’s bleak and colourless

If future there exists at all,

 I live alone now, better that way,

The only way I know,

The parson calls for blather and dues

I pray for him; to go.

I can walk east to the flagstone bridge

From my humble house on Rowantreehill.

And think of Sydney, far away,

And Heaven, even further still.

I like to sway in rocking chair

And wait that call from Him on high

And wait to see my Dave again

In glorious cockpit in the sky.

I was born in nineteen fifty two

At seven degrees below,

And my mother called me Patience

How in God’s name did she know?