for my grandfather

 

When I first came on a visit

to your lime-washed house

– a clean-kneed child from town –

your two great fists

 

impressed me, for they

were ponderous chunks

of granite, notched

carelessly for fingers

 

and which, at your own willed

creation, you had torn

from the heart of the land.

Yes, I knew then how

 

you had risen and, separate,

had kept on walking.

I was almost frightened

to be your friend, but still

 

am running so breathlessly

beside you, as you stride

onwards, the castle of yourself,

across rough fields

 

of thistle and clover.

And the dog is running

before us and laughter

creates a flawless sky.