Ritual

It is a grey morning

I am awake early

The backdoor is open

And cool air enters the kitchen

My father is on his knees

Scrubbing a wire brush

On the fire grate

Newspapers on the floor

He takes a rag

And pours black lead

Onto the stiffened fibres

Then he smears it

Onto the scrubbed surfaces

He balls up the newspaper

And throws it on the hearth

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I Remember Never Wanting It To
End, Like Always,
Fear Of The Over.
Is It Nearly Almost Over?
It’s Like,
Every Time I Smile
I’m A Liar To Myself.
Like You’re Looking At Me……
Happy Or Guilty?
We Look….

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The trees still sentinel stood

their green leaves whispering

rustling gently in the wood

in the same soft breeze

and I know some summer birds

sang in their canopy

a requiem without words

'neath the same blue sky

that through every passing year

quietly watched over me

safe within Ceredig's sphere

It has been too long a time

since our firs...

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