John T. Cochrane. Poem by Michael Cochrane

John T. Cochrane.



My Father had a hard childhood in poverty. He always said it was the greatest crime. In Ireland he went door to door asking for bread barefoot. It left its mark a man who was tough and kept his feelings closed like a unread book never letting me open a page. A man of few words quiet and hard to get to know. He passed without us knowing as he was spirited away by siblings who caused a lot of hurt and pain. Happy Father's day dear da.
Michael Cochrane ©

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