He was a son, raised by his adoring Mammy and Da.

Bonny baby, babbled happily at all those who bent down

To coo at him in his cot. Never a nuisance or a bother,

Tiny tot with a big future.

He was a teen, bit of a tearaway but not too troubled.

Chasing girls when he was a hot-blooded boy.

Easy on the eye with his sharp jaw stubbled,

They were coy, but he had the charm.

He was a worker, well paid, lived the life of riley.

The others in the office congregated daily at his desk

For a laugh and lengthy anecdotes. He was spoken of highly.

No shortage of invites to parties and people’s beds.

He was a father, the devoted dad and family man.

Always at recitals, never missed a school nativity.

Then the love of his life died, reliance on whisky began.

Happy memories quickly became history.

He was a drunk, daughters grew up, didn’t care to stay.

They disowned him. Years of futile attempts to get him sober,

All their efforts in vain. His brain fogged, in a state of decay.

Jaundiced skin and a stale odour, closer to death than life.

He was a man, full of spirit and love. First with a joke, gag

A kind word. The world bright for him, until his light became dim.

Now he’s just a faceless ghost buried in a sleeping bag,

Lying on the footpath over O’Connell Bridge.

By Jordanne Kennaugh