not a whit less

not a whit less

how often
the simplest of things
the hardest to speak
simply of….

i saw a boy
shouting like the
house was on fire,
it was just
his mum had
come back home
from time far away
and at the tear
in my own eye
knew, at my
age edging towards
a pension and stylish
walking stick, that if
i saw my mum making
her way to the gate,
my dad lifting his eyes
from the saw and sawdust
of a minute’s cut through
wood, i would not be
one whit less happy
than that wee lad,
with his heart on
fire and water
in his eyes.