Lest we forget
A square that was never a square when it was a tram stop!
Perfect Guiness Add
Waiting
You said we’d meet in the Packet
a bar that had a rough reputation
I wondered about that
as I ordered a Guiness.
You always kept me waiting
that was one of the things
one of many things
I liked about you.
The bar had fallen silent
I looked around and saw
the seagull on the top
of a broad brimmed straw hat.
You were six feet two
and stood head and shoulders
above the men lining the bar
all of them looking at you.
The sun glasses you wore
stared at me above
that wide white toothed grin
you said make that two pints.
I loved waiting for you.
A Sense of duty (excerpt)
I listen to the voices of those
talking quietly of their day
of their worries,
and sharing the joy
of milestones missed
the sadness of memories
and the missing of you.
I watch men who stand
leaning, crying in a grief
that has no sense of ending
of the keening, of the longing
to hear your voice
before the sound
of it is forgotten
and that dread of forgetting.
There is a kind of peace here.
The cruelty of lies (excerpt)
The cruelty of lies.
Why do they say it?
I really wish they didn’t.
We must meet and do this again
is how the saying goes
and they say it.
And then I never see them again.
Rob Cullen
Crow Art (excerpt)
It is an un-contestable truth
that crows are the greatest artists
of this whole wide world
as they create art from nothing.
White Sheets
White sheets.
Hanging from the wash line.
Is this a wash day?
A wash day like it used to be in the village.
With every house on a Tuesday morning
hanging the washing on line after line
in the back gardens.
The wind catches the sheets.
And as they billow like sails
they make that cracking noise
as the cotton snaps to its full length.
White sheets blowing in the wind.
Rising and falling as they are caught and buffeted.
The wind drops and the white sheets
slowly drift back to hang limply.
The wind rises again and the sheets
begin to stretch out with the force of the breeze.
The clouds break.
And brilliant sunshine illuminates the sheets.
A stronger gust and the sheets stream out again.
Each sheet rises in sequence to reveal the pathway.
To reveal you standing there.
You. Watching me.
Silently.
And the sheets hide you again as they fall
to hang without movement.
But then begin to unfurl and rise
as yet another gust pushes the white cotton out
and you are once again exposed.
You stand watching me with that serious look.
Your eyes expressionless.
Studying me.
And once more the whiteness falls
to cover where you are standing.
There is no movement now.
Just the brilliant whiteness
falling on you like a curtain.
And then you are revealed again.
But it is not you.
It’s the girl standing there in your place.
Your daughter.
Standing there expressionless.
Staring as the sheets rise and fall rhythmically.
And then you begin to move.
A long slow stride.
Towards me.
You move.
Almost as though you are in slow motion.
That slow time again.
There is no sound now.
Your eyes are focused on me.
You know me.
You look at me.
And now rain drops.
The sound of a steady pit-pat.
The sound increasing.
Rain falling.
Suddenly a crescendo.
White sheets spattered.
Grey spots
On white sheets.
Nearly dry white sheets.
Water spatters.
Water stained
White sheets.
Turning grey.
Hanging limp now.
Hanging to the ground.
And you are gone
Awake now in the darkness.
Uncertain of the time.
Lying there listening.
To the rain.
Rain hitting against the window of the bedroom.
Uncertain Times (excerpt)
Of words and truth.
Like grasses bundled
And withered in storm
We are blown helplessly
And not a word is spoken.
Who sings the authentic song?
Who speaks the words of truth?
Who stands for me and mine?
Who looks at what we see?
Who hears what we hear?
Who breathes the air we breathe?
Who sees what is right and wrong?
Who speaks for me and mine?
Who sings the authentic song?
Where are our heroes and poets now?
Rob Cullen
The Last Gesture
The last gesture.
A dirty ward,
bedsheets unchanged.
It was simple really
the doctors failed you
and we were left
listening as they lied.
But the infection nevertheless
caused your dying to be long,
your body racked with pain.
The helplessness remains.
And when your last breath
had eased away your will
we closed your eyes
with our loss.
And we brought you home,
laying you out in your coffin
on the table in the front room.
It is our custom for the dead
to be brought back,
to be watched over
to be cared for at the last.
To make sure they know
their dying is over
and their souls are loved.
We lit candles at night
and sat with you in vigil
while our children came in
to peer over the wood
of the coffins edge
Is grandad asleep?
Is he really tired?
Does he need to rest?
Is he in heaven now?
And we spoke of him,
of the way he loved them,
so that he could listen too,
and hear the words
chosen to explain
so they would not fear
these final goings and leavings
of something so familiar
we will all face some day,
and in our own time.
You looked small
in that wooden box,
and before they fixed
the lid down, I placed
a bunch of rosemary
and lavender in your hand.
Rob Cullen
Celfypridd 