One Poem by John F. McCullagh

Somewhere on this Island is a tiny unmarked plot.
It would have been my son or daughter
but she decided it would not.
Engaged, yes, but not yet married.
It came at an awkward time.
It would be nice to have been consulted,
But that's a right men haven't got.
She might have been a beauty
as her sister is today.
Or he might have been a scholar
if not commingled with this clay.
There is no stone where I can grieve;
No plot to kneel and pray.
Just this burial ground of paupers
I am visiting today.
It is my fault as much as hers
I do not seek to blame.
If only to have held you once
or given you a name.
The winter chill cuts to my core.
I feel a sense of sin.
I'm reminded the saddest words of all
Are these: "what might have been"