My dad is a gardener and a slayer of men.
I met him late in life at about 10am
His fingers bent
this man of rain,
Of wet sea mist lanes
that have no beginning or end
Just hedges and roads
Numbing the pain
in his tight clenched hands
that no longer summon the music
that I never heard.

My dad is the sycamore tree
With leaves wide as paddles
Dark green, aphid sticky
Growing too close together in
that strange walled oppressive place
in Ballylibert
with no room to grow.
Home of the lucky Crows.
But a lot of shit for us
Hold me, he begs, in his eyes there is
Dread.

My dad is a geranium climbing that white washed wall
Watered by the spring of love
De fontenne is his name
He is dark scary well water
He is bright stormy sea water
He makes cows nervous
He is the fern that unravels each spring
He is the tiny bright yellow shell
Lit in his eye
He is the man among men who without much warning
Walked into the room and
held me close once again.