Death of his grandchild

The clock tick-tocked into the night,
No moonlight walked in through the windows,
No sleep cradled the old man in its arms,
He cannot sleep, they give up.
He simply cannot, cannot sleep.

That other day, the early morn,
As rain had come and gone,
He had looked at the sleeping child,
In the scented wooded coffin,
His grandchild, his only grandchild he had loved so,

The old man had looked at his own son,
Slouched by the door screaming,
Deeply shattered by his own loss,
A wounded man in his wounded house of dreams,
So far, so far away from healing.

You must be his rock,
Allow your son to grieve his heart,
He needs to cry to feel sane,
He needs his time and space, they say,
While the old man blinks his tears away.

They did not tell him what he should do,
Where to place his own burden down,
With his own grief so hard to bear,
The grief of his own loss,
Together with his son’s despair,

Like every night, he looks transfixed at the Liffey outside,
He can hear the gently lapping waves,
He tries to close his eyes and still,
He cannot sleep, he gives up,
He simply cannot, cannot sleep.