PRECIOUS TEARS (POEM)
Precious Tears
In many silent little graveyards,
Amidst the green fields of Tyrone.
Sleep the loved ones, now the victims,
That leave shattered broken homes.
Sent to a brutal death in Omagh,
By a voice from hell on the telephone.
Mothers and daughters, fathers and sons.
Brothers and sisters, babies so young.
Workers who tended the shops all around,
Friends happy, laughing, just a day in town.
Now a heartbroken man with three children will mourn,
A wife and mother, with twin babies unborn.
For everyone that day had started so bright,
Fun and laughter in warm sunlight.
Sure there was peace, nothing to fear,
Choosing clothes and shoes for the new school year.
The traders of Omagh welcomed them all,
Young children from Spain, their friends from Donegal.
The lying phone call was precise, loud and clear.
All worked hard to get the street cleared.
Near the courthouse, at the top of the town,
The timer of a bomb was fast counting down.
But the bomb exploded far away from this hill,
In crowded Market Street, twenty-eight did it kill.
The dark cloud of smoke now over the town,
Could not mask the carnage on the blood covered ground.
Screaming, demented, many out of their mind,
Searching the rubble, loved ones to find.
Where is the peace in this tortured land,
For the child who is clutching her dying mum's hand.
The six and twenty caskets carried shoulder high,
Past stunned, bewildered relatives who softly say goodbye.
Then two tiny white coffins of babies so dear,
Even God in his heaven must have then shed a tear.
Small innocent mites who died just because
Evil hearts still chase a god forsaken cause.
In the Churches and Chapels, the prayers have been said,
To ask strength for the living, peace for the dead.
The reporters are gone, their talents well used.
Treated all with compassion, no trust did they abuse.
And a fond mother's love, young children did lose,
A terrible price for a pair of new shoes.
In a little house in Dooish, beside the Chapel Hill,
A favourite chair stands empty, the knitting needles still.
Now many sad children face long empty days,
That a mother once filled with her loving ways.
Now on lonely dark nights, they will softly weep,
For that precious love they could not keep.
Gerry Skelton.
In many silent little graveyards,
Amidst the green fields of Tyrone.
Sleep the loved ones, now the victims,
That leave shattered broken homes.
Sent to a brutal death in Omagh,
By a voice from hell on the telephone.
Mothers and daughters, fathers and sons.
Brothers and sisters, babies so young.
Workers who tended the shops all around,
Friends happy, laughing, just a day in town.
Now a heartbroken man with three children will mourn,
A wife and mother, with twin babies unborn.
For everyone that day had started so bright,
Fun and laughter in warm sunlight.
Sure there was peace, nothing to fear,
Choosing clothes and shoes for the new school year.
The traders of Omagh welcomed them all,
Young children from Spain, their friends from Donegal.
The lying phone call was precise, loud and clear.
All worked hard to get the street cleared.
Near the courthouse, at the top of the town,
The timer of a bomb was fast counting down.
But the bomb exploded far away from this hill,
In crowded Market Street, twenty-eight did it kill.
The dark cloud of smoke now over the town,
Could not mask the carnage on the blood covered ground.
Screaming, demented, many out of their mind,
Searching the rubble, loved ones to find.
Where is the peace in this tortured land,
For the child who is clutching her dying mum's hand.
The six and twenty caskets carried shoulder high,
Past stunned, bewildered relatives who softly say goodbye.
Then two tiny white coffins of babies so dear,
Even God in his heaven must have then shed a tear.
Small innocent mites who died just because
Evil hearts still chase a god forsaken cause.
In the Churches and Chapels, the prayers have been said,
To ask strength for the living, peace for the dead.
The reporters are gone, their talents well used.
Treated all with compassion, no trust did they abuse.
And a fond mother's love, young children did lose,
A terrible price for a pair of new shoes.
In a little house in Dooish, beside the Chapel Hill,
A favourite chair stands empty, the knitting needles still.
Now many sad children face long empty days,
That a mother once filled with her loving ways.
Now on lonely dark nights, they will softly weep,
For that precious love they could not keep.
Gerry Skelton.
Further Information
Publisher: TYRONE CONSTITUTION
Ref: TC/0541
Published Date: 03-Sep-98
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