April

February crawls.

March stands up.
April moves at a jog.

I hardly remember the white breath of winter,
Waking each day as vigorous as a river.
There’s always been a sadness in my mother,
This time of year.
Days like these
Are seen through wistful eyes.
I never realised why
Till now.

It was a day like this
Pearse died.
I’ve seen his face in pictures,
The uneven sweep of his curls,
The charming grin
Of a nine-year-old boy.

The football rolled
Across the road.
He followed.

Mum became the youngest child.

She never let us play out the front,
Said it was for the flowers.
But I knew what blooms she sought to protect.
By curling balls and bending legs on sunny days
We brothers fought and loved.
Flat balls still litter the edge,
Orange bladders like open wounds.

Pearse would be a man now,
Too old for games,
His curls withered,
Chin stubbled,
Driving to Ballyshannon.

Mum sometimes kicks the ball.
She smiles, but her chin hangs low.
When I kick the ball in April
It goes faster than any car.

T. Conway