Line the rivers and fill the halls.
Final journey to the resting stores.
Sad state we didn’t wish to see.
The death of the last great matriarchy.
Tragedy struck but never let go.
Maybe now they’re gone it’ll ebb not flow.
I cannot say and so I’ll hedge my bets.
While others cast them in iron sets.
Raise the mast with its new design.
Transition from old to new time.
Are these the ages we thought we’d know?
Almost certainly not so.
Yet these are hands that have been dealt.
Tradition born from the days of celt.
Not a clan around refuses to attend.
To imagine such is beyond what you can comprehend.
The hours late so the stalls are bare.
Last few trinkets are at prices quite fair.
But do you wish to part for crumbs?
To me it sounds like giving up ones thumbs.
A no brainer which should not be done.
Even under the point of a loaded gun.
Yet on this day of dreary remorse,
It would be most unkind to be so coarse.
Weather fits mood in the worst way.
Dawn til night its been a drizzling day.
However with night creeping it is so clear,
Conclusion has been rendered here.
And so i return to my quarters.
To hear the shrill of my daughters.
Asking questions with delight and glee.
Truly infectious, it lifts mourning from me.
Simon A Jackson - Writer 