Tuesday, June 30, 2009


Here at the end of the lane of shade.
The house is a mousetrap set beneath tangled trees.
We can’t go on.
Stay parked and re-examine the maps.

In an armchair beneath the window
My grandfather spots a darkness in the river.
Deep green, rollicking, inhabited by salmon
The water sings the long afternoon
The song the prophets sang of old.
His thin hair shines in the weak sunlight.
Isaiah, Hosea stand up and declare God's glory
From the old leather book on his lap..
The wife has the garden club and is out for the day.
In every drawer faded pictures
Bite their lip and “wait to be asked”.

My shy wife and I, empty handed
Panic and look in the glove box
For something to bring with us when he opens the door.
Old beliefs, or new electric gifts,

While rapidly, beyond the dark porch
The old man’s chest is filling with roses.

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