Posted by: Peadar Ban | June 11, 2010

At The End Of The Day

Today is the 69th anniversary of the birth of Sheila Marie Welby to whom I was married for a little more than 34 years before she died in my arms.  I can practically see where she is buried from the window of the rectory kitchen where I work.  I will be buried there some day, and so will Mariellen, God love her.  I look forward to the two of them meeting each other, they are so alike in many ways:

“It should be noted,” say the trees,
“That we have enjoyed your presence
And been glad to lend you the company
Of our shade.  But, it is time you should leave;
The sun, you must have noticed, is setting.
And though we see much remains of day
Your home is not here but beyond
The sight of our most high limbs
The soft green bosoms of the hills
All the quiet waters and flying clouds.”

It is as quiet as a soft rain
On a cool afternoon,
As the slow tick of a wall clock
And the sound of water tumbling
In a simmering pot.
It is as quiet as children outside in a schoolyard
With windows closed and classrooms empty.
But not as quiet yet, not quite
As the cemetery at the end of the street
Where stands the small stone which will welcome me
And proclaim I was once here quietly.


  1. We had a martini together, Mom and I, today. I didn’t drink it. I only ate her olives.

    • Good Morning Mouse,

      Just two olives, anchovy stuffed olives. I used to sneak one from the can while I was making her drink. Nice memory.


    Her haunting, pretty face comes back
    Through all the years now growing dim,
    Frail wisp of times beyond recall.

    A hurried life has sped her on
    Beyond our realm; the cosmic dust
    Obscured her path beyond retrace

    She stayed not long, nor knew us well,
    But still her image, clear and bright,
    Remains in life and form unchanged.

    The fondness grown of ebbing years
    Protects her from ungentle time. . .
    As if she died, not went away.

    • Good Morning Choppy,

      Thank you for this peaceful response. I will clip and keep it.

      Bless you,

  3. In the half light of the canyon where day becomes night, thoughts of those who have passed on bring the passion of love and pain of loss. No longer a youth, your remembrance, brings to me a moment of identification with you.

    We can love completely without complete understanding.

    I still reach out to those who have gone and for whom my love can never fade.

    With my memory I call forth those who I cannot live without.

    • Hello Wes,

      I suppose when you get right down to it, not much separates us all from one another. The pain is not so much pain anymore as the sweet sadness of memory; and the loss has become another kind of quiet presence, in a certain sound, a kind of light and the way the breeze sometimes touches and then is gone. Thank you.


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