Things Don’t Matter

Things Don’t Matter

 

Sitting by the beside the old man

Is older no more.

Looking for his mother and father,

His first love and wife,

He asks desperately where are they?

They were there a moment ago,

Real and touchable,

As we brought the hay from the fields,

And took the warm milk from my mother,

In a rural Ireland, long since deserted.

But today, by his bedside,

I notice something else.

What he isn’t talking about,

The things he has completely forgotten,

His home, possessions,

The precious car.

Because they don’t matter.

At all.

 

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.