John, Joanne, Andrew

No ghosts trouble me;
Gone for good, oh, gone.
Three years, five months,
Four bairns, three gone,
One left: one.

If I could
Gather up the days, go back,
To that summer afternoon,
Our Mark up ahead, wee Jo on her bike and
Baby Andrew, oh, my babies.
John just catching on with his chubby legs.

If I could
Go back, move a wee bit faster, clear the railings,
Hear the car, see the swerve,
Gather up the kids and run.
Outrun these scattered shapes and sounds
That ask the question:
Why ma, why?

If I could
Hear their voices once more, but
They are gone, and God hasn’t sent me a word.
I’ve forgotten their wee voices, and
Dying again as their faces fade,
My eyes listless as I long to join them.

Eight-and-a-half-year-old girl, her six-week-old brother, and their two-and-a-half-year-old brother,  killed when hit by an out of control car that mounted the pavement, driven by an Irish Republican Army (IRA) member who had been mortally shot by a British Army (BA) patrol. Their mother committed suicide in 1980.