Dad’s great but Deirdre was a disaster
Just something about the pair of them that didn’t quite work, didn’t quite  fit
Pathetic relations
I often found myself to imagine them way back when
A wedding with two equal young fools owing to their idiocy alone
One often thinking, truly believing that they could fix the other, and the other way too proud to give up, moaning a little bit about this, about that
For decades there they sat, side by side but oceans and mountains apart, thankful of the rough terrain set between them more often than not
A kind which would never see them back together again
Drowning, floundering courtesy of their many, many inadequacies
A perfect storm, for them at least
Each to their own, one could, would often win the battle but they both should inevitably lose the war
Never once realising they were meant to be on the very same team
A terribly ugly drawbridge wedged between them, things can often be that way, and it was always impossible for a conversation to end well
When Deirdre died Dad cried for another decade, didn’t age too well himself
Water swelled the drawbridge – too little too late
So very sorry for all of the battles, long forgotten now, ignorant gestures, daft hatred that consumed this particular pair
A woman forever and a day on one man’s loose arm may have, in fact, been heaven-sent
A different kind, perhaps, but a kind nonetheless

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