Dad
He’s far more here now he’s there,
frequently calls, has a word
or two, different man; wisdom beyond,
looks like, a larger tune, livelier;
plain he knows when there’s bother,
precise contours of son’s harsh need,
the answer and verifiable road
ahead, where I’ll sprout, where wither.
Today he stood fornest me, long spade
extended, spun handle, blade, fed
shaman circles into my famished eyes,
downed the teeming spade, touched my face –
‘Short sorrow, Son, is a long sword’ –
leaves me to the whistling wind.
Tom MacIntyre
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