Fathers

Did you see the endings in your father’s eyes
as he cast you out of heaven unconcerned;
did you hear him ask himself if he could fly
and realise in a moment it was not too late to learn

as you went sailing in the ether on a rush of gas and air
from breaking wind to breaking windows overnight
he came diving after you on that long maker’s fall
the crippled half-blind shaper of your imperfect life.

Drunk on milk and honey, surfing waves of arms,
passed from face to face, from hand to hand to heart,
drifting in the space of everybody’s dreams
could you hear your father praying: do no harm?

Wishing every kiss would produce a thousand sparks
and every spark a universe of stars
always out in front of you and racing to keep up
dropping every baton and lowering all the bars

as you went sailing in the ether on a rush of gas and air
from breaking wind to breaking windows overnight
he came diving after you on that long maker’s fall.
The crippled half-blind shaper of your imperfect life

hands you an empty pentagram, a black star
and an anarchist’s hat with a wink and a rose and a key
that won’t quite fit until it’s rusted, lost and found
and polished up quickly on your ragged sleeve

handed on in the heat of a moment’s mistake
again and again and again returned to the lame
creator embarassed to say where it’s been
could you hear your father saying: there’s no shame?

As you went sailing in the ether on a rush of gas and air
from breaking wind to breaking windows overnight
he came diving after you on that long maker’s fall
the crippled half-blind shaper of your imperfect life.

George Roberts
5 January 2008