Friday, 16 April 2010

A poem from my PA cycle


pa had hands that
never grew old
they just matured –
beautifully boned
large hands
the right an octave and two
the left an octave and three
from playing the viola

the octave and two
gripped mine
for the last time
at norwich station
the thick gold band
of wedding ring
caught my palm

his hands
i did not inherit
his ring
my son did

instead i inherited his laugh
but only after he was gone
maybe i had stowed it away
unknown to myself
for the lean years

it erupts in mid-joke
as it always did
not a snort, not a whinny
but a brief guffaw

hello pa

for the whole cycle, go to here

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