Poetry: Wisps in the Wind


Grandfather needed no one, his hands clean

From the soil that provided solitude

And nourishment, his mind shaped by senses

Both common and immediate, his words

Steam-cleaned, spare and considered, his motion

Weighed by the meaning of a good day’s work.

His grandson lives in a storyboard world,

Hands filthy from markets, his mind clutching

At wisps in the wind, his phrases pasted

From memory, his motion a cold blink.

In this state, surrounded by grandchildren

As helpless as he, he damns the system

That gave them birth and builds a barbed-wire fence

To imprison the thought that he needs them.