Granite

The silence of his absence is deafening –

lettered in gold

below a guitar carving

on a granite slab.

The cold inscription

of his date of birth

and date of death

brackets the span of his life –

hardly a man when felled.

Life is caught

in the whistle of a breeze

through lamenting trees.

Life is caught

in the rustle of my footsteps

over mourning grass.

Life is caught

in my breathing as I move on

to another grave.

Glistening gold on granite gathers

my sister’s twenty-seven years 

into an arrow shaft.

Formless fletching guides

grief’s barb to its mark.

Cleaves a heart.

Another life so short.

Too short.

This one felled

by féinmharú –

death by one’s own hands.