DAD
The swans out in the field
Their secrets not revealed
Passing into silent flight are they
Perhaps their subtle sigh
Stifles some deeper cry
As they know you’ll be leaving much too soon
Walking down the lane
The filly foals refrain
Their running is the sound of falling rain
Are they restless from the summer?
Or somehow do they know
You’ll not stay to seen them fully grown
By the fairy mounds of old
The pock marked GPO
Cross the Boyne to bang your head on spiral stone
See the wonders down at Fore
And the ancient seat of kings on Tara hill
Now sitting by the fire, music’s playing’ low
Guess I’ll raise a glass or two before I go
Though it’s to an empty chair not your smiling face I stare
(Yet) whenever that door slams I still hope to see you there.
And sitting here I wonder
All those stories finally told
Revealed how in our youth
We were so very much the same
Was it drink that made us bold?
Or did we speak so true
Because somehow, we knew
You’d not be coming back this way again?
Somewhere Still
Somewhere there is still a place, you sitting in the sun, concrete porch paving slabs, Cape Cod Grey picnic table, small summer savages running jumping clinging – immune bare feet impervious to sun. Skin frosted with salt, lotions, cake icing.
Somewhere children still take your hand, invite you to cross the street walk with them down to the beach, taking them sometimes instead to lunch…
Long-time companions, comforts of old age, afternoon naps, books, TV, mail order catalogues, big band music and too those ever-dangerous memories – love, marriage, a hole never in twenty-three years has time healed.
Somewhere she still takes you by the hand. Ohs your name laughs into the open window, Fifty-five Chevy, summer bright chrome. So close to flying great American V8 highways up through the Canadian border dwindling into heavy Nova Scotia sands.
There has never been an ocean too cold for her to swim in. Long after your retreat to safety – Flamingo towels, Knickerbocker beer, USMC Zippo, Old Gold cigarette spiral prayers. Gratitude at last. Unable to fathom any reason to feel bad about surviving.
Deep breath wonderful (not a god damn palm tree in sight). Watch that woman of the sea; only wish there would never have to be a time to leave.
Later she gets tipsy; acquiescing when the waiter offers to sweeten her drink no knowing here to sweeten means more liquor. Out on the dance floor, hold each other tight as you want because she’s your wife now and you always liked the Mills Brothers.
Sometime after midnight, small cedar room, Stuart tartan blankets, crisp white sheets. Strange night sounds traipsing gingham curtains. As if tiny fingers, she ohs your name. Answer back with words you never knew before.
This spring by the sea your little house will not find you. Gone now perhaps to wander just like W.B. said –
Glimmering girl once more beside you and pluck
Till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
(For: D.R.L. – with regards to W.B. Yeats, his favourite poet.)
Published in The Hartford Courant on Jan. 28, 2003
