The Old Grey Mare

He sits now
On the day-bed
By the old Franklin stove
With his hands in his lap,
Fidgeting with restless frustration
But, my God! What hands!
Every callous and scar
A silent witness to a lifetime of toil ?
Honest, hard labour
Etched in every line of his hands
His powerful frame,
Now bent like a twisted juniper,
Once made the rowdy man wary
And the pretty maids yearn
Should his piercing eye have fallen upon them
For he was dashing and quick-witted
But now his grey temples
Enclose a mind that,
According to his children,
'Ain't what it used to be.'
"I'm not good, b'y, not good.
Me innards are . . . are all upside down,"
He would say. Then, plaintively,
"God help us . . . God help us . . . God help us . . ."
"He's never been the same
Since the old girl passed away,"
His daughter would murmur audibly
A couple feet away from him
To 'concerned' visitors:
"Doesn't even remember our names sometimes.
If I ever gets like dat,
Shoot me, will ya!"
"Well, the doctor'll be by later.
He'll tell us what to do wit 'un."
On the shelf above his head,
The old radio crackles,
'VOCM regrets to announce the following . . .'
"God help us . . . God help us . . . God help us"

Michael Coady © 1993

Published in The Newfoundland Quarterly, Winter 1994-95, Vol. LXXXIX, No. 2