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Sitting
on
the
grass
below
See
our
bridge
of
years
ago
Crossing
over
to
your
side
Held
your
hand
when
I
arrived
Love
is
there
it
always
stays
Memories
live
within
those
days
Hear
your
laughter
in
the
air
Turn
around
and
you
are
there
My
heart
it
skips
and
races
fast
I
run
to
you
like
in
the
past
Reach
the
other
side
and
know
Memories
deep
inside
now
grow
Feel
the
same
as
I
did
then
Emotions
held
so
deep
within
Realize
that
you
are
gone
Know
that
now
I
must
live
on
Hold
me
close
I
feel
you
near
Wipe
away
that
flowing
tear
Heard
you
call
my
name
last
night
Brought
me
here
in
endless
flight
Take
my
hand
and
walk
with
me
Years
we
shared
held
reverently
Cross
the
bridge
and
always
smile
Each
day
with
you
was
so
worthwhile.
~ Francine Pucillo
Poetry.
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Please be patient, slow loading
KIRKTON UNION CEMETARY
by Roy Doupe
Pale winter sun slants off granite marked white shrouded graves
A century of snows has covered and recovered
the memory of these Irish Palatine pioneers.
Snow conceals memories...of black clothed figures
huddling together on Limerick's Custom House Quay...
waving goodbyes, receding gradually...losing shape,
fading finally into the grey of an April morning
fading like the country itself beyond Kilrush,
blending gradually into the meaningless horizon
between sea and sky and then suddenly disappearing...forever
Snow conceals memories of memories...
of stories told round turf fires at Courtmatrix
of ancestors pilgrimaging down the mighty many castled Rhine hoping for the Promised Land.
More recent memories of themselves four generations later
in North Atlanic trusting equally the seamanship of Captain Timothy Gorman of Kilrush
and the power of Almighty God in Heaven praying together Wesley's words:
Lord, when winds and seas obey
Guide us through the watery way,
in the hollow of thy hand
Hide, and bring us safe to land.
Snow conceals memories of clearing Huron Tract farms, chopping sawing, burning,
the frenzy to free enough soil for next spring's planting
frantically cleaning all vegatation from the gentle swells of land near Fish Creek.
Memories of horses foaming with sweat labouring into the slush of black flies, mosquitoes
spring crops of burdock and thistle and mud roads,
fringed in Queen Anne's Lace
of thumps of flails on granary floors,
soap, syrup and cider making, vegetable garden with enough food for two winters
the raising of cabins and barns.
Strong young men and fertile women, giving birth in as regular pattern as the animals they raised.
The longitude and latitude of their universe meeting
at junction of the town line the Fourth Line of Blanshard...Kirkton.
Switzers, Sparlings, Shiers, Doupe's, Brethours
They rest now, these builders of Ontario on a soft rise of ground
at quiet cross-roads a mile from the village.
Their graves, their memories
shrouded in purest white
Dear Ancestor"
By: Author Unknown
Your tombstone stands among the rest;
Neglected and alone.
The name and date are chiseled out
On polished, marbled stone.
It reaches out to all who care
It is too late to mourn.
You did not know that I exist
You died and I was born.
Yet each of us are cells of you
In flesh, in blood, in bone.
Our blood contracts and beats a pulse
Entirely not our own.
Dear Ancestor, the place you filled
One hundred years ago
Spreads out among the ones you left
Who would have loved you so.
I wonder if you lived and loved,
I wonder if you knew
That someday I would find this spot,
And come to visit you
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