His Last Parade Poem by Matt Mooney

For football or farming
Or hosting The Fleadh,
Always cool as a breeze,
A good centerfield man.

On stage he was dauntless,
He kept the show on the road;
When he told his tall stories
We’d all laugh aloud.
The last time that I met him,
In the Square, Patrick’s Day,
He was sitting in his wagon,
Looking at his last Parade.
He was our own St. Patrick
For thirty years or more;
The saint is sure to welcome him
At Heaven’s open door.

‘Three leaf shamrock I adore thee’
I can hear him singing still
‘Or last night as I lay dreaming’
When he sang of Spancil Hill.
Good times we had together,
I miss the beat of his bodhrán;
Now in the sessions held on high
Michael’s spirit will play on.




(Fleadh= Traditional Music Festival.

. Bodhrán('bowrawn') = Tambourine) .)