Printed from WriteWords -


by  Alan Corkish

Posted: Saturday, April 30, 2005
Word Count: 129

a man i called father
~for a brief moment
in my life~
smoked a clay pipe
and chewed ‘old rope’
which spittled
crackling on the
open fire
eyes grey as a
north sea storm
never settled on me
and he went to his death
without us ever touching
or meaning anything
to one another
he was just there
and he came and went
with no word of
greeting or goodbye
except for once
when his own son drowned
and i saw salt in the crevices
that seared his face
like the salt grey of his hair
and the eyes dimmed briefly
in that brushed leather face
as a single finger, coarse
and brown like a ropes end,
brushed away what might
have been a memory
or an unstoppable tear