A Picture of Him
We stood silent
in the cold wind,
snug in the wrapped warmth
of our grandmothers thick coat,
my sister and I,
staring into the mystery
of a freshly cut and polished
marble headstone, the letters
spelling my grandfathers name
sounding out in our heads
as if recited in a reading class
at school. J - A - M - E -S,
H - E - N - R - Y.
Away at sea
for most of the time, he died
when we were too young
to have him set firm
in the then thickening
slurry of our lives. He lived
painted in the spoken words
of my grandmother, animated
in stories and short clips cut
from his life. Soldier, sailor,
adventurer, he was too large
to fit an ordinary name
walled within our childhood home
or chiseled in stone.
He lived on the wild outskirts
of an imagined, unwritten world.
Health ruined by the horrors
of the first world war,
he found relief from his pain
in the swells and gale driven
waves pummeling ships
on the Tasmanian run.
I still carry a picture of him
printed in my mind,
smoking a cigarette,
standing on deck with the sun
going down, alone,
looking out into the sad distances
of the southern ocean,
lost in his thoughts,
far away from home.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
