Old McIvor

Blue slippers lie beside the bed
Of old McIvor, long since dead.
A briar pipe with twisted stem
Stands in a rack with more of them.

A silent clock, a bible red,
Lie on his locker by the bed,
And rosary beads, so black and worn,
A pine bed knob do still adorn.

Who was this man? How did he live?
And, to the world, what did he give?
A legacy of love, though poor,
And memories that will endure.

Yet no-one’s here to clear the things
Of him who met the King of Kings
With Whom he had clocked up a score.
I’ll bet he tells Him tales galore.

You do not live for ninety years
Without your share of blood and tears,
And what of heartstrings plucked away
By maidens slender, fair and gay?

I wonder if he’s happy now,
This man who wore a furrowed brow,
And sometimes cursed the world as though
There was no other place to go.

He’s found it now and that’s for sure
Where every ailment has a cure.
His feet are warm for, like I said,
He left his slippers by his bed.