“Did I tell you about the Black and Tans?”
Said Docherty’s da. He had; thousands of times.
More often than ocean’s tides come in and go out.
“I knew Michael Collins, of course,”
The old man added, his head tipped to one side
As if he’d broken his neck for a moment or so.
He had, once in some bar
Hidden amongst others more worthy no doubt,
Though he thought Collins singled him out
For a special gaze across a Jameson or two.
Time deceives. Old man Docherty,
Dogfish to some, sips his stout
And smiles his toothless grin
As the tide of his memory rolls in.
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2006 POEM.
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