Michael Journeyman. Dying to move on.

Suasidal friend left alone. A bitchery.


One mourning Michael sadly cycles along Mount Jarome Cemetary in search of a friendship in ashes.

Biking along path and prow talking out loud, eye-balling left right, right left searching rapidly from side to side.

“You are un-characteristically quiet now”. Eerie silence but for the wind in yew trees.

“Where are you, I can’t find you, where do I look in this massive outcrop fridging field of cold stone? You have so many comrades now, all so still also, oh why did you bow out so very soon. Sorry close friends never heard alarm bells; left behind wandering and wondering repeatedly. Why didn’t we?, and why did you?”

Now Jerome chimes peal back the loud dark veal of silence here. In God’s truth, you are a grave loss. A retrospective cremated nood remnant from that burning economic tiger. More bid a sad solm mad mess of madness. Celtic this stain, from parish to perish leave you as mere clinker while coveting others bank on with a clinking ‘cheers’.

Here death ages recorded… as if a lotto of longevity. Ninety-four years, seventy for a month, sixty-six, fifty four, thirty-two, unlucky thirteen, three…months, and that was not a Wynne. Lament the late Tate, Spate, Lovett or Knott. Caring, Cassidy, O’Dea, Tidey and Darty. Cobbs, Robbs, Hobbs, Jobbs. A little Furey between them, and then a don’t know who… Kerrs?

“Good morning sir” towards someone who may have been a gardener. Making ground breaking decisions, relative to plastic plants in glass bowls, within sense where a Chestnut leaves dents in a fresh pound of mound. “I am looking for a friend we lost suddenly… took his own life”. — “Asoul, another suaside, so he may be buried by default, or if not try the under ground tomb. Follow the path and look for a sign…perhaps he is on the long walk.”

Come ode for a class mate and a school chum. You know he was a decent bloke and fast with a joke, perhaps a fright from behind guaranteeing a thorn in your side; a prod of some sort so in a month, no one will mind! More bid for our critical mass than for his critical mass. Oh the signs reveal themselves now…the Long Walk, the Low Walk, East Walk, Nuns Walk, One Way, No Litter, Gates this way. Delappe, a Round, passing a Hill, a Herron, a Rivers then Higgins, Coady, and Foley. Then a Wise, Mann, James, O’Toole, Murphy, O’Brien, oh Brian. Carmel-anne, Elizabeth-anne, Willoughby and Ramsbottom (two), George and William. A Wiley, Smart, Liddel, Fox and Fairbrother too. O’Hara, O’Donnell, Knapp, oh nearest, oh dearest, …. oh dear rest. Murray, Gunnes, Downes, Preacher… a teacher, and a few Peoples. My daughter, Myson nee Free. A Husband weeps for Weakes. A Strong, Walker, Hunt, Crowe, Deering and Stalker. Mooney your light remains with us, kind thoughts, Twomey. Greene, Budds, Somerfield, Moore, Rivers… a baby Dawn. Darker, Knight, Watchman, Faraday.

Michael now faces another Day, another Knight…then Porter, Meade, Jamieson, Hennessy, Paddy, Powers and Guinness. A Hoare from Cahore and Moore from Tramore. Laird, Waters, Edge. Eagar, Roma, Claire from Clare, Ennis from Kerry. Doors, a Carpenter, Fisher, a Blacke, Smith, Free, Mason, a Trainer. Death for A. Stokes from a stroke, death for a June in a July. Death for a good Harte from a bad heart, A. Sloan after another Weake, a Quicke after another Peake, Foster, Childs nee Namee and Kidds from Adare. A Ward (from the Ward). A Moody, (colonel from the war), Dunne, Kirke, Beech, Gray and Whyte, Jordan, King, Pollak, a Moran. Truss, (a builder) close to a Goode, Price and Walls. Longue… life cut Shortt and Wren (a capt. of golf), Pidgeon, Putt and Roe after Rowe. A Richman and a Foreman, Locke and Key. Two Graves in one grave, two Coffees…one fifty, Coates… only forty. English nee Leggett and Spain nee Hackett, Lea nee Namee. Winton, Church, Hill, a Pope and a Scully. Two Sommers one Winter. They are all Wright. May, Banks, Clarkes, Byrne, Young.… suddenly, after a long illness. I.C.Lyttle remains from Athy and Schull. Two Walls side by side; one gone after sixty years and the other still standing after one hundred and fifty. Constance…alone, Woulfe, Coote from Cavan, K.C. Casey and D.C. Deasey. All dying to get here, and all lying in their waking position, nowhere to go. Stones, all fridgingly cold, home alone, in between A.N. Others. When they are gone they are gone.

We bow to this self-employed who took a stern shot on his life boat to urn, a living now in dust real happiness. Then suddenly Michaels’ jaw speaks, ‘Yo’… By quantitive entanglement and late as always, chubby chuckles IS here… with another hi and another bye, and his very last lame joke and final ‘fair well’; a Mexican wave coupled with his happy warm rye giggle… ‘Audios… aah me goes’!

RIP Jonathan Allen Wilson

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