A poem from my PA cycle

INHERITANCE

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