Tag: time
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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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Dying Light
From my porch I watch thunderheads battering high noon into bruised twilight. I see you climb from under eaves, awakened by a pressure change. As the storm inhales you leap and spin, leap and spin your web — knowing your time to build is fleeting. Ryan Stone
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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…
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Mother’s Hands
Advertisement for Myers Gloves, by Margaret Watkins (Canada), 1920s. Mother’s Hands Strong enough to lift me each time I couldn’t rise. Soft as cotton wool, washing dirt from scrapes and tears from eyes. Firm enough to model clay and boys, to bowls and men, yet fine when stroking ivory keys– Für Elise and Clair de…
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This house
never recovered from the storms of ’93 when lightning stroked shingles, shorted out circuits, left one side wind blown and sagging. Tufts of moss sprout from the bowed memory of taut boards. A plague of crickets lurk beneath stairs, creaking their arthritic chatter. From a threadbare recliner in a ramshackle room I gaze over fields…
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Back Road
In this threadbare landscapewhere patchwork fieldsstretch to the horizon,a red barn slouches—weathered and wornthrough all the long days,paint flaking under the sun. Surrounded by wheat husks,each stalk croaking secrets,forgotten, a scarecrow slumps—guardian of a dead land.Tattered garments hang limp, buttoneyes gaze sightless. Last sentinelagainst encroaching shadows. And still, there is beauty here.Where barn, field, and…
