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.

20 june 2018

Copyright © 2018 Peter Le Baige. All Rights Reserved

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: