Dad by Tom MacIntyre

Tom MacIntyre


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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