I remember my  son at nineteen,

The way he made his jaw hard,

While his eyes and cheek looked soft.

I remember being nineteen oh so long ago,

Feeling strong and young and wise,

And ready to live forever!

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Thomas Reilly was nineteen,

A strong, young, wise, tender, soft, hard youth….

He died upon the Solstice Day, upon my holy day.

Somewhere, his mother cries.

Unlike me, she won’t see her boy at thirty,

She will forever hold the memory of a sweet boy.

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Thomas Reilly died on my Solstice Day,

He was doing a man’s work in a hard place,

And died a man’s death on 21 December.

Nineteen doesn’t believe in death,

But the man-to-be died with the boy,

The Mother gets a flag, a grave, and echoes.

____________________________

Thomas Reilly died on my Holy Day,

My heart is wrung, though he was not mine,

And if I could die on his holy day to bring him back,

I’d lift my throat to the blade on 25 December.

I’d take his place, now old and soft,

To let him grow older and harder.

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