My Brother in Dublin Bay


My Brother in Dublin Bay


You were more silent than a deep

leaden fog keeping still over Dublin Bay.


Across the Atlantic, I sensed the cheerful

lightness of your spirit sinking into gloom.


But your silence spoke on your behalf

even when you talked and said nothing.


When I called you that mist started

to lift and you took heart again.


Then word by slow word, you divulged

a litany of too many small labours.


Your mother-in-law down the street

needed a light bulb changed yet again.


The school bully attacked your son and

the teacher called you twice this week.


Your daughter threw a wobbly over algebra

when an imaginary quadratic proved too dramatic.


Your wife, panicked for the eggs were

too small, rushed you to the shop.


Then she said the butter was the

wrong brand, so out you rushed again.


I wondered if you were a saint

doing so much for so little return.


For some, their work is their identity

but you are the people you love.


You are a cornerstone, steady and solid,

a reassuring presence in your family circus.


An urgent plea intruded, ending our call,

leaving me with silence over Dublin Bay.

Marc Audet

Marc Audet lives near New Haven, Connecticut, where he is self-employed as a web application developer. He enjoys reading contemporary fiction and literature both English and French. He has traveled and lived in Canada, England, and Ireland. In addition to writing computer code in various languages, he also writes short stories, creative nonfiction, and poetry. His work has appeared in “Potato Soup Journal”, “Across the Margin”, and “Books Ireland Magazine”.







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