John MacKenna

Not the musical dancing fairy folk, but the countless dead children whose only music is the sighing of the wind in the thorn bushes, and whose only recognition is in the small rises within the larger, deeper mounds of clay and grass.

And I raise my hand in greeting.

and in memory of my own siblings, buried forever in memory.

And I think of my mother shedding those tears on that bright July afternoon more than 60 years ago.

And I think of my father explaining the reason why that early morning cyclist was going about his sad task.

And I appreciate his silence about his own children lying quietly at the bottom of our garden.