BAREFOOT
I follow
the road
of my father’s voice
journey with him
along white road
over green fields
barefoot
to school
& back
(shoes if at all
worn only
to church)
picking up
the cuts & scabs
stubbed toes
his going to
school
would entail
in the early years
of the 1920’s
only so much
history to me
real
to him
his toes
knowing the wind
in the grass
for what it is
his toes
clasping a rock
fording a stream
Irish & poems
bubbling through his head
babbling along the tongue
words thrown to
those lost summer skies
startling a blackbird
spouting his poetry
with poetry of his own
(3 miles to school
and
3 miles back)
his mind a skimmed stone
dancing along a river
over unforgiven stones
thorns attacking his feet
with undisguised relish
the vehemence of glass
glinting greedily
for the next footstep
the menace
of the twisted rusty nail
& its treachery
betraying the next footfall
as he walks over
the unremitting
years
into my eyes
wide with wonder
listening to him
tell of himself
as a little boy
to his little boy
the me of then
my eyes now
following
the road
of my father’s voice
as it wanders barefoot
through my tears
& memory