Though not there -
In all these Coney Island Tidal Times,
Shru na Mile rivulets
Are etched upon your wizened brow.
Though not guiding that boat - Frances
Through the torrid waves that bellow memory chimes
Of I in youth,
Crouched within her bow.
Though not there to Harvest -
Pearly shells, with me from Oyster Island's shores of rack
From whirly knells of wind within it's grassy knolls,
Your voice will ever echo back.
Though not singing -
A Dunlop 65 or other tune of Wren Point tee,
With utmost Calm,
Down onto the 13th, a fairway,
I'll still hear your teeth thronging larky whistle
Grow forth from whispering sands
Off Culleenamore, at the foot of Knocknarea.
Though not teaching me -
The Ins and Outs of Solitaire or Clock Patience on a soft
Those days will still play a similar game,
With my character and my soul.
Though no instructive shout -
Of right of green and left of red
On channel out
Will ever echo from your mouth,
You'll still be pointing out the rocks that dot
My channelled path through life
Like another Metal Man appeasing this Sailor's doubt.
Though not there still -
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