Pirates we were

Pirates we were

The flat stone by the old church. 
Slate with a skull and cross bones 
to mark the final resting place 
of a pirate ships first mate.

Bill the Batchelor his name.
What of a woman in every port?
Married once and happy the report.

                 A privateer shot and buried 
                in an unmarked grave
           until some old shipmates 
      placed that stone there.

When we were kids we imagined
we were him, 

terrors of the Spanish main.
Our high seas just summer rain 
And a twisted bough the prow 
Of our galleon.

Someone robbed the stone, I’m told
its gone now anyway
           and I can’t remember 
                            quite where it lay. 
So it is again an unmarked grave. 

So much misplaced and lost. 
Stones and hearts. 
Some one stole the stone and you 
                                                          my heart. 
I stand above another stone now 
and think of us in summer rain. 
I think of you. 

                       Rain falls from blue skies 
into my eyes.
                      Pirates we were.

© Dave Kavanagh 2016

© Dave Kavanagh @ daithiocaomanaigh.com

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