Twisted Miles

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I limped the twisted miles,
whistled down the tracks
broken and decayed.

Rain wears words away
erasing you from marble pages.

Legends no longer indelible
on cold grey stone,
fingers trace the history
of twelve gifted seasons.

Your hymn and your prayer lie broken.
Pink rose petals, wilted and dishevelled
scattered by a rowdy reckless wind

I stand sombre and silent
beneath looming dark. Black storm clouds.

The gentle heat of July’s downpour
masks the glistening tracks
trembling, tumbling down
a cracked and worn face.

-Dave Kavanagh

Remembering a darling son
Shaun Paul Kavanagh
21-4-1983 to 06-07-1995
Twelve glorious fun filled years

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