Behind our eyes, beneath our faces,
beyond skin colour, creeds and races,
our worlds crossed the same path on
dead man’s lane,
the killers’ wrath was all the same.
An empty chair, an old hat with locks
A favourite skirt, muddy boots, still
caked with dirt.
We can never replace those,
who did not plan to leave so soon.
All that remains, are the ghosts of
those we grieve,
silently, without reprieve.
➽Seán Maguire has been writing poetry, song lyrics, short stories and non-fiction for over thirty years and has had a considerable amount of his work published in magazines, newspapers, anthologies and online blogs. The above poem is taken from his collection For Those Left Behind.