GROWTHS (I)

 

He comes to sit with me today

the old man

to tell me the things in his eyes

How they sit there growing like cataracts

making demands on him, his pension

 

He does not show me but

I see other places were life has grown truths

on him

I see a love song he swallowed when

love was a young boy’s kite that did not

find ways to fly

 

Growing

varicose

I see his hands and know

that they wanted to hold you some nights

and did not

not because

he did not know how

There were times when his hands could no longer be

for holding you. They had learnt to hold

other things too heavy or light. And

you would not have fit

because left alone, things can

lose their forms

or forget their uses

 

For the complete poem, download The Solitude Issue.

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