A new poem, its called: The Ancestors. Come into the garden, someone cries. It’s almost seven and the table is laid. Yes come. Come. Evening wind is cooling the trees and we are here, whispering over the rim. See, your mother staring through the eyes of your son. Your daughter hands you a plate with her grandfather’s hands. Yes. Though today, you must eat. They pass down the fruit, pour you some juice, wrap a rug round your knees. Their glasses raise, and your skin touches theirs in a word — Cheers! As eyes meet, we breathe and hover, for a moment uptailing time, then retreat, for now, on the breeze.
Posted on: Sun, 18 May 2014 08:44:47 +0000
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