Grandfather

Your faded black trousers look like charred treetrunks.
Your eyes are like shy leaves. Above them floats
your white hair, like a vague afternoon moon.

I put my hand on yours: rough bark.
You breathe slowly: wind in dry branches.
You say something: a crow
or a saw.

You’re a still man
in a stirred-up country.
Tell me your old old story.

First published in The School Magazine Touchdown

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