In some game for the high-hearted
From a gate, fairly impaling himself
On the headlands of my sharp knees.
Like wind-bounced bees
He dodged the obstacle and ran
On to glory, giving no thought
To the old man wheezing in poorly health
In his way: so with boys since time began.
And
so fifty-plus years ago
On
holiday: my eyes aglowIn a comic, I fumbled for the hand
Of someone, thinking him my father –
In fact a stranger;
Startled, I hurried to my father,
Regarding him whose hand I sought
Not as a person but some faceless brigand,
Forgotten in an instant with a shiver.
But
those forgotten are persons
Indeed
– subject to death, its lessonsToughly-taught. Twelve years later my father
Lay dying in his death rattle,
His fraught battle
For breath defeated; surely that
Holiday stranger also fought
And lost. And I, held fast by death the lover,
Whose hand shall I seek in my final combat?
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© May 2013