Tom Mcenroe's Last Sabbath Poem by Mark Heathcote

Tom was one of those 17,000 navvies that hand-worked
on digging the Manchester Ship Canal.
Earning £19 for a 10-hour working day and incurring
backbreaking toil, and yet grandfather was no numskull.

The Sabbath had a special place in his Irish heart.
He was a man of very few words and an early riser,
never late for church, always dressed his best, and smart
a whiff of pipe tobacco on this old eulogizer-

'Fine, ' but those who dared to 'censure' a pungent crime.
He died of shingles. He lived for many years then and since.
Until his early 90s, I remember him in wintertime-
braving, snow and ice, tying boots, and curtailing winces.

He was fearful of cold weather and fearful for his health.
But, as a widower, he had faith and convictions.
Promises to keep heart and spirit in moral wealth,
His Lord would see to that, whatever his afflictions.
 
Under his flat cap, he kept a hearty smile and a grin.
Like a quarter slice of an apple, rosy pink cheeks,
hair white and yellow like the rind of a lemon skin
He was chesty when he chuckled in those little squeaks.

As a young boy, I never asked but would wonder why.
His wife, my mother, and her sister weren't by his side.
Didn't they care about his beliefs or what he believed?
Their dereliction of duty three was times amplified.

The Sabbath had a special place in his Irish heart
One time, I went to church. My role was a support-
worker with a client whom I dressed very smartly.
Later at home, I inhaled pipe tobacco, a whiff, and a snort.

I believe he visited my sleep, proud that I'd been?
Evoking smells of the resin—woodbine.
I woke to remember that evening of the Sabbath.
Incense burning at home and the sound of hosannas.