Tag: father
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In the Shade of the Tree Ferns
No path here.Just damp earth,moss on stone,and the slow, deliberate hushof growing things. Tree ferns arc overhead,fronds wide as arms,filtering lightinto something sacred. I brought my sons here,when their legs were smalland full of mud.They squatted in the black soil,drew patterns with sticks,found joyin a single wriggling earthworm. The ferns, the filtered light—none of it…
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Letter to My Sons
Boys, When the fire comes—and it will—don’t run.Stand your ground. Feel the heat. Know what’s worth burning.Not everything you carry needs to be saved. You’ll be told to move fast, talk loud, win more.Don’t listen to that.The quiet men are the ones you want near when things fall apart. If your hands shake, that’s fine.So…
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Magpie Morning
Fifty soon.Strange how that numberfeels both heavier and lighterthan expected. I wake before the house stirs.Kettle on.Dogs at my heel—the old one careful on the tiles,the young one waiting for the daylike it might break open just for her. A magpie sings on the powerline,low and fluted—not calling,not warning—just there.Like me. The track behind is…
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Unburied Hatchet
Until I saw those wasted hands, brittle as chalk, I hadn’t thought how fast the years make ghosts. I heard them once called brawler’s paws. For me, they were always more: cobras, poised to strike. But his brawling days are gone now; I could kill him with a pillow, if I cared enough to try.…
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Self-portrait
And these are my failings: a wild smile always leads my mind to the kiss hiding behind it and sometimes to plot the shortest route there. Did I say sometimes? I lie a bit, too. And I tend to zone out to small-talk – there are enough idle words in the world. And I can’t…
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Irish Fire
My grandmother called it Irish fire, said it raged through my father hotter than Beli Mawr’s bum. She was long dead when it finally flared fiercer than he could contain. The embers of his eyes scorched childhood’s last leaves to ash, left them smoldering. Ryan Stone
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Breaking Point
Pa, I see you in your shed– unaware of dusk settling over your garden, painting your pink crabapple blossoms grey. I see you bend, to squint at some small imperfection marring the wooden soldier you’ve spent the whole day carving, hands slow-dancing to a tune no-one else can hear. Later Ma will shake her head,…
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Muted
Clock hands circle lethargically. Heels clack, a distant speaker hisses – muted, surreal. I shift on a green vinyl chair, eyes trace an arc from clock to window. Outside, a succubus sun kisses children at play. At my father’s bedside, both of us wish I wasn’t. I despise myself for watching the minutes, and him…
