Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Tuesday Poem: from The Grove In The Eye Of Light

Scrub Pine

He seemed to need so little,
his spare frame bent
on learning to play guitar,
my middle brother,
weathered and
sturdy as a pilot boat
lost in the salt mist of music.

Years I watched him,
cheered for him, trying to green
and grow while a hurricane
raged between our parents,
until he shut himself away
from all of us, taking the knob
off the door to his room,
replying to our entreaties
with bouts of silence.

Now his solos take me back
to when he was eight months old,
sitting in the high chair I carried out
to the back of the garden,
and kicking his little square feet,
as I fed him peaches,
cool and sweet,
the sky as blue
and cloudless as his eyes.

1 comment:

Harvey Molloy said...

Thank for your poem which I enjoyed, especially the image of the 'salt mist'.