Snow has fallen in Donegal.
Patchy, thin on hills, it won’t last.
In lower fields squat tatty sheep,
nagged, confused by heedless lambs.
Cattle tug at bales of hay,
deaf to the swoosh of a lone bird.
Your fingers peck at emptiness
at the edge of a Belfast linen sheet,
threading time between two worlds.
The snow on distant peaks dissolves.
Unshaven, your chin hangs,
thinner than in life.
For my father, Johnny Walsh, born 5th July 1919.