Under the watchful eye of Neptune

Under the watchful eye of Neptune or The Watch of my Late Father, Who Was Never Late. 

Maria Joelle Marchal (2014)

It is not my funeral 

But it is the saddest place I have ever been. 

The body is laid out for all to see in that there not-there way. 

How a body encases a person

When now it is vacant and unused as a piece of furniture 

Albeit scratches and patina

Now woodworm. 

Once strong and old, an old sea-dog and ship’s soul

Used to pulling in lobster pots from Purteen and Keem bay, 

Thick hands with calluses on both index fingers 

where nets were let out, and oars were rowed 

And mathematics and cigarettes and stories told. 

None present now, not family, not the visitors passing through

Not the old woman with the clock that says ‘Now’.

Not himself lying there with his callused hands. 

Shell-shocked, trying to catch once again that bright pearl 

Of eye contact or a new thought from a mind now gone. 

Everything is in the past now, everything is said and done. 

It is not my funeral 

It is the saddest place I have ever been.

That’s a nice watch he says and I look at him

Suddenly I’m aware of my own 

Eyes turning sea-green against a red tide.

And family resemblences. 

And tears. Non stop, just like time and just like the sea. 

It’s not my watch

It is the saddest piece of jewelry that I carry with me.