A woman who laughed in the face of the night, for it scared her to remember a young sons fate.
With age,
she awaited his gentle face as for the witches who looked after her final days.
She cursed them with swear words of a bitter taste;
for they starved her,
tied her and made a mockery of her face.
She didn’t deserve such a pitiful place,
something that awaits most of us with a filthy disgrace.
Young grandsons looked on and didn’t understand;
this chosen grace as their Mum and uncle lined up this place.
Now, as I, of maturity and knowledge,
look back to all the magnificent times with nan.
All I can do is shed a tear for her plan.
Was it ignorance, evil or deaths mighty plan?
A woman with stature, magnificence and a smile that can.
If it weren’t for her,
these words wouldn’t be mastered on this canvas;
a dedication of memories to Josephine O’Toole.
Taken by death in the blackness of his arms.

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