Thursday, 17 November 2011

For the reluctant child

These are your hours, child,
dew-driven, tear-born,
these hours are clothed
in garments of waiting
old clothes imprinted with immemorial pattern
dust-dusted, star-clad,
bleeding boring histories
of request and decline.
These are your hours, precious,
heart-made, word-driven,
made of simple thing
like endearment and never-to-be
i-love-you, i-like-you.
These are empty hours now,
they are yours, nevertheless.

[from the collection 'The Underside of Silence', shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2009] 

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