One year after he's reduced himself to ash
the spit of Jack or the spit of Jack's absence
rises in the small hours in the upstairs lounge.
I glimpsed him in the corner of my sleepy eye
rise and feel his way to where the singing was
to belt one out designed to terrify the Saxon
and lull the Gael. A singer in the old tradition
shouted, "Jack Mitchell, You are one of ours!"
He reddened then, reduced that instant to the size
of a young boy trying his old man's cap for size.
I hope the dead musicians came to welcome him
because the last time in the Crane I saw him sing
he looked so totally at home among musicians
he would be lost until he got to where the music was.
[ About Jack Mitchell contents page ]
©Renate Mitchell. May not be reproduced in any form online or offline without explicit written permission.