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In everlasting memory of my friend. RIP mate. 29th August 1971.
The Empty Photo Frame.
I listen to the dull recording of his voice within my mind.
The words are plain, the voice is strong the accent one of my own kind.
The tape recorder in my brain repeats his words just as were said,
This final discourse written down in ink, inside my head.
And I can still remember where that last short talk took place.
Beside the road, near Crossmaglen, a spot now lost,
Without a trace
And as we chatted on that day, the devils work came into play,
For soon my friend of countless chats would soon be lying dead.
The tarmac road of Cullaville the pillow for his resting head.
And through the mists of languid time I still call out his name,
His face has gone, and all I’ve left, is an empty photo frame.
What power is this that weaves its web, that takes away his face?
Is it because I blame myself for his sad fate, his shocking end,
That leaves my mind without a trace?
Or is it just that Father Time has marched the road where my thoughts live,
And somehow blanks his face from me, hoping to forgive?
Or is it just to see his face would tip me o’er the brink?
Would blow my mind, or ruin my soul, or tip me into drink?
These are the questions that I pose, to you, the reader of this prose,
Because I cannot find the answer for myself.
The answer lies, deep in my mind, upon some dusty brain-cell shelf.
It dangles here, before my eyes, mist shrouded, like a lurid game.
Nailed to the wall of my minds eye, this empty photo frame.
One day, perhaps all will be told, the day I die, all grey and cold.
And I will leave this mortal coil, with dignity, and soul unsold.
And climb the escalator to that place, where judgements meet me,
Face to face.
And I will see those other lads, that I once knew, and shake their hands anew.
Then once again we’ll crack a glass, to those who fought that stinking war,
And then I will be with my friends, who travelled on before.
The blinkers that have closed my eyes, will be removed, and I’ll be sure,
Of all the things I see.
At last the shield that closed my mind will disappear, be gone from me.
So with the clarity of God, I will shout out his name,
And see hung there, in Odins halls, his face, complete with photo frame.
Dedicated To Cpl Ian Henry Armstrong. Killed in action, 1500hrs, 29th August 1971.
RIP.
The Empty Photo Frame.
I listen to the dull recording of his voice within my mind.
The words are plain, the voice is strong the accent one of my own kind.
The tape recorder in my brain repeats his words just as were said,
This final discourse written down in ink, inside my head.
And I can still remember where that last short talk took place.
Beside the road, near Crossmaglen, a spot now lost,
Without a trace
And as we chatted on that day, the devils work came into play,
For soon my friend of countless chats would soon be lying dead.
The tarmac road of Cullaville the pillow for his resting head.
And through the mists of languid time I still call out his name,
His face has gone, and all I’ve left, is an empty photo frame.
What power is this that weaves its web, that takes away his face?
Is it because I blame myself for his sad fate, his shocking end,
That leaves my mind without a trace?
Or is it just that Father Time has marched the road where my thoughts live,
And somehow blanks his face from me, hoping to forgive?
Or is it just to see his face would tip me o’er the brink?
Would blow my mind, or ruin my soul, or tip me into drink?
These are the questions that I pose, to you, the reader of this prose,
Because I cannot find the answer for myself.
The answer lies, deep in my mind, upon some dusty brain-cell shelf.
It dangles here, before my eyes, mist shrouded, like a lurid game.
Nailed to the wall of my minds eye, this empty photo frame.
One day, perhaps all will be told, the day I die, all grey and cold.
And I will leave this mortal coil, with dignity, and soul unsold.
And climb the escalator to that place, where judgements meet me,
Face to face.
And I will see those other lads, that I once knew, and shake their hands anew.
Then once again we’ll crack a glass, to those who fought that stinking war,
And then I will be with my friends, who travelled on before.
The blinkers that have closed my eyes, will be removed, and I’ll be sure,
Of all the things I see.
At last the shield that closed my mind will disappear, be gone from me.
So with the clarity of God, I will shout out his name,
And see hung there, in Odins halls, his face, complete with photo frame.
Dedicated To Cpl Ian Henry Armstrong. Killed in action, 1500hrs, 29th August 1971.
RIP.
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