My Father's Business

This poem is by my friend Phil Ricketts.

My Father’s Business
12 years old and already going about
His father’s business although not
His earthly one’s trade of working wood into shape

He’d found his path. And his parents?
They were left to ponder and shake their heads
And perhaps raise a fist or two for only
god knows what a handful he’d been

and to sit back in wonder at
the life he’d taken to and the
crosses he’d have to bear
until that final one

24.12.91
(dedicated to one Paul Smith who’d rediscovered his earthly sense of humour)


...and this is another

BLACKWOOD (for Raelene)
I see a boy, brain dead, give his life to another
I remember Christian myth of a man who did the same
I wander past some poor mother staring at her child disappearing
Inside a box so small that it hardly warrants the wood

I see my friend go into the ground
While black crows circle and craw

I sit between my parents and my kids
All in decline and full of life
And think. No, that way is pain.
And feel. So sad and scared.
And hope. In the order of things.
As Summer edges Autumn aside.