Fire Wood

by Robert J. Flynn

The field, a vast green floor,

Surrounds but does not hold.

A halo of gold and red-topped

Giants speak to what was here.

We huddle, a grove in this

Great empty space to carry the

Oak-cased remains of a friend,

A brother, a father, a son cut down

First the sons,

Vikings,

Oh, the image of,

Lift.

A friend, a father

A friend, a son

Lift.

A friend, a brother

A poet struck dumb,

Lift.

We cannot move or change.

We carry but we do not bear.

We sing but to no avail.

The oak will burn bright,

The ashes out to sea

The sadness, the quiet, the space,

The time cured memories remain.

Friends now lost, find

The shade of each other

In the vast empty space of trees cuts down,

This early autumn day, under a cloudless sky.

A side note by Bob Flynn

George, my high school buddy, died of brain cancer in October, 2001. I helped carry the coffin. He was cremated and his ashes were put to sea off Nantucket. The funeral was in a church in New Jersey in a private school run by priests of the Order of St. Benedict (Delbarton) that his sons attended. He moved nearby so the sons would have an easier commute. The school abuts a forest which was the winter home of George Washington during the Revolution (Morristown and Mendham). There are a lot of trees and then a cleared field nearby. The church is in the clearing. The poem is simply a snapshot of a moment that I remember but cannot dissolve.

George was like a brother. He used to confide in my Mother when we were young. When we were older he visited my Mother in a nursing home in Ireland as she faded and as he carried himself in the grips of brain cancer. He said “Thanks” to her. He came to her funeral. He died.

What little time he had he used wisely.