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More poems by Louis McKeeLouis McKee | Print this page.Print | View and Write CommentsComments | Books by Louis McKeeBooks by Louis McKee

The Blackthorn

Louis McKee

The blackthorn was his father's,
a piece of Ireland
that the old man could still get his hands around
even as his hands grew weak,
refused to hold.  My father
never knew Ireland;
when he gripped the walking stick
it was something else he was holding on to.
I watched my father
get old; he would stare at his hand
and open and close his fist,
try to fight the arthritis.
By then he had lost the stick,
and he could have used it
to work his grip, to beat
at the hard knot that was tying him up.
When he died he was laid in the ground
only a few feet from his father,
while in Ireland the sturdy blackthorns
were defying that sad land
and bursting with white blossoms.


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Added: 24 Feb 2003 | Last Read: 16 Jan 2018 10:22 AM | Viewed: 4473 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/7930/ | Viewed on 16 January 2018.
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