Father: Every Morning of His Life
Father: Every Morning of His Life
The cup he took his tea from
all those years was Army surplus,
made of tin. It whirred
to the spoon he wound in it
15 times per lump of sugar.
We who slept in rooms just off
the kitchen rose like ghosts
to the winding of that spoon.
In my house, now, mornings
Sue’s the first downstairs. She
scalds the leaves and wonders:
Will the winding ever end?
Donal Mahoney
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