Growing up, casting the sun's light on ant armies to form a flame.
'Round every Saturday afternoon, roast dinner at yours and hers.
And what remains: overwhelming blame.
Never allowed to swear, contradicting your crude mouth, for years.
Dad said you'd be proud of how I've made it,
And you'd be smiling down, saying to your peers,
Deliberately using your clever wit,
"That bugger's mine."
To make her laugh alongside you.
Early six o'clock mornings, fishing along the embankment line,
Constant brain freeze from the vanilla melted goo.
Asking to hear your stories even on the decline,
Which I was to naïve to perceive, not knowing this was your final adieu.
And your birthday cake's a year older than seventy nine.
I thought you were better, your hair now grew.
The next Sunday, you were gone.
Leaving me colourless, not even the feeling of blue.
I thought you beat it, I told all my friends that your hair grew.
You hugged me at her funeral, attempting to undo
The grief. At yours, your daughter, with the same wit as you,
Did the same. The taboo
Of the name was never mentioned, as we withdrew.
But. You left a bottle of pink lemonade in the fridge. For me.
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 :(•
