Tim Murphy

Lealty

In a small country graveyard
I watched a man of ninety
crossing himself and kneeling
before a tilted headstone.
I saw he was a farmer
by his Carhart coverall
and wondered at his stature
unbowed by work or weather.
After he planted flowers
I glanced at the engraving
from Nineteen Twenty-seven
to “Beloved Wife, Maria”
and an infant son, Jason.
The clan name was Chisholm.
What brought them to our valley —
the world away from Scotland
though hardly a plot in heaven?
I’ll never know their story.

David

For the slow death of his father,
the near loss of his mother
and swift death of his brother,
I have a friend who suffers.

An innocent in the Garden,
he shouldered every burden
and marched straight out of Eden
when the angel told him “Go.”

He cannot hear the Gospels.
Moses and the Epistles
are no aid in his struggles.
He fleeth from the Father.

To me he is a beacon
of decency and reason.
Someday the Lord will beckon,
but will David turn home?

Companion Piece

Tomorrow is Memorial Day, and I shall be visiting the graves of my people in the little village of Georgetown, Minnesota. There is a small cemetery there which is at the confluence of the Red, the Sheyenne, and the Buffalo. It is where I encountered the tall 90-year-old Scot exactly described in my poem “Lealty”. “David” is written for David Mason, who was introduced to me by my mother. David and I are of an age when we are suffering a lot of losses, some of them shared, particularly our beloved editor Fred Morgan, founder of The Hudson Review, Anthony Hecht, our Master, under whom David earned his Doctorate, and our dear friend, the poet Michael Donaghy.