She lifted the Stick-from the corner-
The corner of the Big Room-where it had always stood-
— After He had used it-
He won’t be needing You anymore-She whispered.
Gripping the bulbous head of the Blackthorn-
She leaned heavily through it-
The Battle is over she thought.
Listening to the hum of mourners-in the Big Room-
Mouths stuffed with funeral ham-tongues loosened-
Spittle—Like the wild Atlantic foam-gathering at the corners of mouths-
The Fairy tree cloaked her with the promise of protection-
As she claimed ownership-of His Blackthorn Stick.
For my Father