Tag: father

In Fallow Fields

In my father’s field
fledgling hopes are neatly hedged,
sown in the soil of silent forebears.

Beside a bourne, in chalk and flint,
dreams are buried deep.

The rasping of his shovel has slowed
this season. Some furrows lie shallow,
others run deeper.

Through rustic panes I watch him bend,
straining against the pull of years
to pluck joy from the loam.

A moment’s pause to contemplate
a lone invader into precise ranks,
before his shovel resumes its dirge.

Discarding my pen, I fall in beside–
a forgotten page, unplowed.

Ryan Stone

First published on The Houseboat in August, 2015

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23

The Walk

I wake a full hour early
for the rare gift
of a walk in the woods
with my father.

He is a silent giant
among misty ghost gums.
I tell him, Watch!
See how fast I can run.

He doesn’t yell when I trip
and fall, but lifts me
with unfamiliar,
calloused hands.

At the end of the trail
I study my grazes—jagged
and bloody. He tells me
he’s leaving my mum.

On the walk home
I gaze at the gum trees
and fragmented clouds, thinking
they should look different somehow.

Ryan Stone

first published at Poetry Nook, 1st place Week 185

42

Galaxies

Catch me a star, little spaceman,
he’d call, and I’d catch a breath of whiskey
and hand-rolled cigarettes, mingled
with the sweat of his shirt
as I tumbled back into strong hands.

My father would launch me
to the ceiling and ask,
How do the stars look up there?
And they were bright, the stars,
like his eyes far below. Bright
like the glint of his wedding band,
marking a safe place to land.

He’d hold me over his head, my arms
outstretched like Superman, whoosh
me all over the room. We’d loop and soar
until his strength gave out, somewhere
in the world below. Down in the world
where I stand tonight, my son whizzing by overhead—
wide eyes on the horizon, seeing galaxies
beyond the man gazing up and asking,
How do the stars look up there?

Ryan Stone

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