A nearby guitar riff
and a muffled cluster of mundane claps
fills the confined living room.
As the tv's on standby, taking a cigar with spliff to his mouth,
his ruffled hair with the paining of a migraine,
reminding me of the memories from the earlier days.
For you no longer worked overtime
and we spent the spring watching
that same video with the cat that played that Keyboard song you hummed, tune by tune.
You jerked back, holding the microphone while it was my past bedtime,
As I begged for another biscuit or two.
We bonded over the prolonged wait 'till next autumn, waiting impatiently for the release date.
I miss the simple days where we sang
imperfectly in the meantime.
Your hand on my shoulder,
placed with such grievance,
"I know, he would have been proud of you."
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
Poetry(n). A blend of homesickness, nostalgia and deep longing for something, especially one's home in Wales; an ode to the loss of our homeland, our language and our traditions. •I update this quite infrequently :(•
