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Gentili by name and gentle by nature
You rest here, tranquil, serene in a sombre peace.
Visitors, they pass by, little knowing of poverty,
Or your life and work in Dublin, amidst disease.
The flickering wings of the engaged butterfly
Casts no breeze to disturb this space.
As it moves from flower, to flower, to flower,
In the composed confines of this sacred place.
This summer’s evening, fading to autumn chill,
Closed eyes may not see this quietude beauty.
Resting on benches of precious memories,
Sheile sits in the shadows, bound by devoted duty.
Flowers, they incline forward, as if to hear sounds
Of a bygone yesterday aching with sad sorrow.
When one chooses hope, then everything is possible
Sheile rests, eyes placed on some other tomorrow.
Is it possible, she wonders, to send truthful telegrams
To heaven, for angels to read, when time permits.
Closing her eyes, she thinks thoughts about days ahead
But no answers come forward, so she silently sits.
There are many regrets amidst these delicate flowers,
Where sadness appears appropriate for a tormented past.
In this garden, of stations, statements and mosaic memories
A thousand Hail Marys may scarcely speak for the cast.
By Jim McParland
