I wrote this poem on February 13th, 2019 after watching a video of a bagpipe and drum processional. It evoked memories of my cousin Dale’s funeral. There was a similar procession of bagpipes and drums that broke the dam of my emotional reserve; I could no longer keep it together, and the tears were unstoppable as the music played on…

With a flourish
Both young and old
March to an ancient tune
Fierce, implacable
Sharply nasal
Punctuated by drums
Genetic memories?
Or memories from old lifetimes?
Who can say
My Gaelic roots
Are activated, excited
Who knows how deep this goes
The bagpipes and drums
Bring forth a cultural longing
An inextinguishable sadness

And still they march on…

4 thoughts on “Flourish

  1. The sounds of a drumbeat conjures up feelings of order and marching together towards some end. But the end is unknown. Therefore, for me, conjures up fears of what the end of the journey will revel when the drums are silent.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Love it chippie. I remember Dale and Terry. How is Terry? I didn’t know that Dale died. Is Shirley still alive? What was her husbands name?

    Sent from my iPhone


    Liked by 1 person

    1. So many questions :0 OK, let me see if I can answer them. Shirley’s husband’s name is Frank. I haven’t seen the three of them since Dale’s funeral in 2005. So I don’t know if Shirley is still alive and I don’t know how Terry is doing. Mea cupla.


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