Tall, heavy man of slow walk
his bedroom-slippered feet
made the sound of old cards, shuffling
and halting, calloused hands.
Those knew more work of a day
Than mine, of a lifetime
His strange voice could boom through
The dark chair-leg forest; I hid
"I says Twillingate, Twillingate Newfinland, bye
Where canna man find a job, I says"
From those blue and sun-washed eyes
When we came for Sunday dinners
Of beef and Yorkshire, gravy
Browning thick as the papered silence
"This be my wife Sarah, from England"
He always seemed to be just waking up
Yet one pass of those thickened fingers
Was enough to vanish nickels
Or find them in my startled ears
"Your father lived here at your age," she said
An achingly magic thing
An old tree surrenders its branches
To autumn rain and eager winds
The last seeds fall, to whiter silence
"His name: all he knew, all he could even print."
I want to be a writer, Grandpa.