Get on with it now
y’ auld blatherskite.
Aren’t we that sick of lookin’
at each other for forty years.
Twenty thousand cups of tea together
         to flood the vale of Slievenamon
         boiled spuds chomped
to feed a legion of Black and Tans.
A bit of quiet ’t wouldn’t be a bother.
’Tis your moanin’ in Belial’s night
I cannot thole.
Hurry now.
               Tear through the blue light.
A lamb needs to be suckled . . .

“A Wife to Her Dying Husband” was published in the 2013 edition of The Labletter.

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