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Poetry
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| My father | |
| By francoise | ||||||||
| 12 November 2006 | ||||||||
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First of all, I am sorry to all you guys out there who I havent responded to.. I shall make a concerted effort to do so as there are plenty I have an opinion of! This piece is abit cliched in places, but I hope whoever reads it, likes it, and knows what I'm trying to get at. Again, apologies for less than original title. My fathers eyes flicker The glint of regret. A cloudy film of age like a knowledge held tight of some territory warmer than this land. My father has a back Which aches when it gets too cold and You can almost hear It creak like an old cabin door drained of old blood as he carries Sacks of rice. My father has lungs Puffed out and resilient. I can do no more than inhale The smoke trails behind him Like a ghost wanting Him to disappear. My father has stories Like trapped sparrows They flutter helpless inside an old chimney blinking blindly In the darkness Focused on flight. The winter branches Carved out into the backs of his hands, The wrists, like roots Of an ancient tree My father has a heart Each beat like the scattered curls Of black diamond In a great mine of Adamantine love. I carve out the future For this precious stone.
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