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of Christopher Whitby |
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| Lost Inheritance "You can tell whose son you are," my mum would say, Especially when I'd irritated her By being me, but with each faltering day I know my father less. When we inter The bones, we bury the memories too - Not that he ever spoke much of his life Or I ever asked. The bare facts I knew But not his doubts or any inner strife He might have struggled to contain throughout the years. If we could somehow have our time again I'd force him to confess his deepest fears And what he'd seen and done that caused most pain. I am his son, and give his goodness due, But need to feel his heart of darkness too. |
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| Divining Water I tried it once at school, this savage art, With country friends and twigs untimely ripped From hedges by the road. Tight fisted and tight lipped They swore they were real hazel, and we stripped The bark from some for scientific test Of which configuration worked the best - No thought that we might fail. In line abreast Close by a gurgling drain we made our start. Yet only I was made to feel the wood spring back And buck against the pressure of my grip. I laughed and said it was a joke, a slip, And tried to hold it nonchalantly slack. I mock it still, but with each year that comes I learn to dread the pricking of my thumbs. |
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