For Dad (A Poem)

Wheeling gulls enfold the tractor

like feathered confetti.

My father, head half-turned,

To keep the furrow straight,

Is dwarfed by the immensity

Of the paddock he has ploughed.

To my child’s eye,

The birds’ raucous accolade

Is well-deserved:    

My dad did that.

Sweat and blood and dust

Concoct a powerful remedy

For the dislocation

Of abandoned pastures:

The apprehension of new fields.

Lodged deep beneath the skin,

Close to the heart,

The quickened earth will find

A new way to speak.

My dad did that.

Discovering a grimy sack

Of be-mudded spuds.

Depression-era currency,

Deposited without ceremony,

At a country doctor’s back door.

Feeding my father’s early respect

For the raw honesty of the poor.

Heirlooms of a nation’s history,

These stories, passed down.

 

My dad did that.

 

The ravelling and

Unravelling of family.

A cast replenished –

Even as its heroes leave the stage.

The father’s trick,

To so play his part that,

In his children’s eyes,

He seems to grow larger

With every backward glance.

 

My dad’s done that. 

Chris Trotter

11 March 2016.

This poem is exclusive to Bowalley Road.