Entered 3-4-1846 aged thirteen. Died 4-9-1849.
Any season would do to tell this story.
In summer these structures would gleam defiance,
their dark brown heaviness standing guard
pitiless and immoveable. Even spring
would fail to brighten the picture with its thoughts
of young life blunted, bent and then ended.
Winter makes any scene cruel, but as it happens
I first came here in autumn, so it’s still easy:
even these buildings look regretful in the rain
and the abandoned graveyard is draped in leaves,
each a memory and promise of rebirth
that the wind will sweep through the rusted gate.
Published in An Aitiuil anthology
S.C. Flynn 