The killing of Georgie
Carries poignantly on the Thames air
A Roberts transistor on the Embankment
How grand
How sad
Nothing more and nothing less
Who would damn him to hell I thought
And why?
Nobody I know
It’s the weekend
And rugby men make their way
Along the tree lined south bank
They stop for sustenance
At their favourite watering holes
Then joyously they march
Towards another Waterloo sunset
The bravest of men
I guess.
Tom Clancy 24/4/2019
I have been away too long, I should have let you know I was busy. But plans for world domination are afoot. Stay tuned!
You can contact me here!
Thanks to everyone who entered the Original Writing Winter Poetry Competition. Over the next few days we’ll be sharing the finalists’ poems with you. We’ll announce the winner on Christmas Eve. In the meantime here’s the first of the finalists; a lovely piece from Tom Clancy.
A Gift of Wicklow Gold
In the garden of old Ireland
Many moons and years ago
There lived a man in Wicklow’s hills
Where the purple heather grows.
Daily he would pan for gold
In a stream below the hill
His neighbours they would chuckle so
Although they praised his will.
“Oh John why do you break your back”?
“Sure tis fruitless what you do”
With pale blue eyes he’d shed a tear
“I am doing it for you”.
He would sift the sand and pebbles smooth
From sunrise to the gloam
When darkness fell upon the brook
He would make his way back home.
John was liked by one and all
Oh such a lovely soul
But fools are fools and that’s the truth
They have no useful role.
The land was owned by portly George
And rents were very high
If you failed to pay your fate was set
To sleep beneath the sky.
The years flew by and John grew old
‘Twas the saddest sight to see
He passed away with pan in hand
Face down amongst the trees.
They buried him on a rainy day
Most respectful to the end
A young girl stooped and laid a wreath
His best and trusted friend.
Bad news it spread across the hill
“The landlord wants to sell”
“And if you cannot buy your plot
Abroad you’ll have to dwell”.
There was consternation all around
For no one had a bob
As auction day began to loom
Poor mothers wept and sobbed.
The sun shone bright on Wicklow town
And the hill went up for sale
“One hundred pounds and that’s my last”
From a man in top and tails.
Going once and going twice
The gavel wielder roared
When John’s wee friend stood up and said
“I’ll give you twenty more”.
Everybody was aghast
To see this red haired girl
Bare drawstring purse of nuggets bright
John’s fortune to the world.
She bought the hill that very day
With fruits of waters cold
And a cross now stands beside the stream
Where an angel panned for gold.
A bright red meteor scorched across
The glittering cloth of night
And souls rejoiced at White O’ Morn
Beneath the pallid light
On a rainy night in Dublin Town
An angel did repose
Whilst fireworks set the cosmos off
For Ranelagh’s blooming rose
Great shards of love came beaming down
To glaze the streaming Swan
As hand in hand with Golden Knight
She sailed towards the sun.
(c) Tom Clancy 25/10/2015
Some kind words about “Poems from an Irish Hearth” in todays Irish Examiner. Just one click will do the trick….
From loosehead to poet, Tom Clancy takes it all in his stride
There is always too much made of the discovery of a cerebral sportsperson. Who will ever forget the mileage British soccer hacks got from the discovery that England…
IRISHEXAMINER.COM
Only two days to my book launch “Poems From an Irish Hearth”
Hopefully my relation the Rev Thomas Connellan RIP (as mentioned in Ulysses page 99) will cast an eye from his book shop in the sky!
Click to buy for Kindle.
Tom Clancy, Trad, Folk, Musician
